


Spectrum of Colors

by GigitheGreat



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Gravity Falls - Freeform, Homeless Stan Pines, Light Angst, Mullet Stan Pines, Panic Attack, Pre-Portal Incident (Gravity Falls), Stan Pines-centric, Stangst, Teenage Stan Twins, Young Stan Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-11 21:11:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19934566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GigitheGreat/pseuds/GigitheGreat
Summary: In an alternate universe, individuals change colors when expressing certain emotions.  This series of one-shots shows the journey of Stan Pines in life, but with (slightly) better communication.





	1. Red

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy! Welcome to the journey! If you would like to ~potentially~ spice up the fic a bit, I am including songs that fit the chapters. I will say what songs they are at the beginning of each chapter, and then provide a series of symbols to tell you when to change songs. Completely optional, but the choice is there! :)
> 
> The playlist with all of these songs in order is at: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1xRNBca32HU73mNW1ODGQC?si=oYF7i3HVSh2xNospZwIVtw
> 
> Song for this chapter:  
> Hey Brother by Avicii  
> (play the whole time ;) this is probably the lamest chapter song-wise)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy! Welcome to the journey! If you would like to ~potentially~ spice up the fic a bit, I am including songs that fit the chapters. I will say what songs they are at the beginning of each chapter, and then provide a series of symbols to tell you when to change songs. Completely optional, but the choice is there! :)
> 
> Song for this chapter:  
> Hey Brother by Avicii  
> (play the whole time ;) this is probably the lamest chapter song-wise)

“Ma, why am I so differently colored from Ford? I thought we’re supposed ta look alike!” a young Stanley Pines questioned, confusion written on his face. He had finally cornered his ma at her little window nook while she was waiting for her next call: her clients had been keeping her busy today, much to Stan’s chagrin. She seemed to contemplate his request before giving in, her skin a sunflower yellow as she threaded her phone’s cable through her hands.

“Ya know what, my little free spirit? I think I can finally explain this to ya. Go get your brother, and I’ll explain this to you both,” Caryn Pines requested, amused.

Stanley scrambled off, yelling for his brother, while his ma leaned back into her seat, planning out her little curriculum.

* * *

A few minutes later, the young pair had made their way into the living room with her, and they were fighting over the comfy chair. Stanley, being the brawn of the two, won the little battle, leaving Ford on the armrest, who huffed in annoyance.

“Alright, boys, knock it off. Stanley, scooch over for your brother.”  
Stan shifted over, a grin on his face, while Ford slipped onto the overstuffed cushion in appreciation.

“Now, boys, follow my instructions,” Ma stated, leaving no room for denial. 

“Look at one another: What do ya notice?” Ma let the twins examine one another for a moment or two. Stan put on a funny face while scrutinizing his brother, pink with amusement, while Ford took the situation more seriously and actually looked at his brother, both close up and from far away. Opposite of his brother, he was a smart blue with observation. Finally, when the boys were done, Ma looked up from her red-lacquered nails.

“Ford, you go first. How are ya different from your brother?”

Ford took a few seconds before he explained, obviously wanting to sound eloquent in his wording. 

“Well.. I have a cleft chin, which is one difference, in addition to me having six fingers on each hand… but I’m guessing you’re talking about how we’re so differently colored from one another. I have blues and grays all over me, while Stan has pinks and reds,” Ford observed, always eager to show his intelligence.

“Good, Ford. Now Stan, why do you think this is the case?” Ma inquired, knowing Stan was the more emotionally intelligent of the two.

“Hmm….” Stan formed an exaggerated thinking face, much to the amusement of his mother and twin. “Pa’s always goin’ on about how I’m such a ‘hotheaded knucklehead.’ Does that have somethin’ to do with it? Ford’s always actin’ like a neeerd, so maybe he’s blue because of that?”

After Ma stopped chuckling, she grinned, proud. “Close, my free spirit. Each and every boy and girl is born with a certain.. palette of colors, if you will. These colors interpret your emotions and can also represent your personality. So, as your brother noticed, you are, by default, influenced by warmer colors. This represents your passionate and hot-headed nature, Stanley. You, Ford, are more on the blue side of the spectrum, which displays your cool intelligence and cautious nature.”

“Interesting. Ma, why are our colors so different from one another, if we’re twins?” Ford asked; after all, he had seen other twins with very similar colorings that made distinguishing between them difficult, while the Stans always had a stark contrast.

“That’s because of your personalities being so different. Embrace how unique you both are, because it’s rare for twins to be able to express themselves. The spirits told me so!” Ma advised, defending her claim when the young brothers sent her a questioning glance.

“One last question, Ma,” Stan started. “I see your colors change more than I see Pa’s change- why is it like that? Can someone be more than one color family at once? What happens if your colors can’t change?”

Ma contemplated his questions, and gave a cheeky grin. She looked down at her smooth hands and seemed to be assembling her thoughts before she spoke.  
“Good question...s! I can answer the first two, but not the third. Depending on the person, colors may change often, rarely, drastically, or slightly. I’ve noticed young kids like yourselves change more than us elders. I can imagine expressing multiple drastically different colors at once has happened in the past, but I’ve never come across it myself. And I’m sorry, but I believe everyone’s colors change, no matter what- it’s just as natural as breathing or blinking. Now go play, you two! I have some more colors to interpret!” Ma dismissed the twins, who glanced at each other in a silent challenge before racing out the door and into the sunny, urban outdoors.

* * *

Recently, Stan noticed his brother wasn’t quite as brightly colored as usual. Not that it mattered, but the once bright blue had started transitioning into a gloomier version of the same color. Stan decided enough was enough when his brother was the color of blue pen ink. Even though his brother had been avoiding any major conversations with him, Stan managed to flag him down on the way home from their school day. Stan dashed along the sidewalk, wind whipping his face, and he stopped when he reached his brother, who was clearly afraid of being unceremoniously barreled over and onto the sidewalk.

“Hey, Sixer, what’s been happenin’? I’ve noticed you’ve not really been yourself: You’ve been gettin’ darker and darker, and I’m worryin’ about ya!”  
Stan noticed Ford’s face become more strained. Dark purple dusted his now-slightly-chartreuse cheeks, showing his embarrassment over being confronted. While Stan felt bad for his brother, he knew this confrontation was a long time coming. He shifted his feet in anticipation while he casually draped his arm around his brother’s sloped shoulders.

“I-It’s nothing, Lee. Nothin’ to worry about!” the elder twin stuttered, a fake smile plastered to his face. Ford’s blue turned a bit of a wine color due to his anxiety, which Stan detected immediately. He knew everything when it came to his twin, so he was sure he had accidentally made his twin start panicking. Stan decided to drop the topic before his brother freaked out more: He had gotten enough information to know what was up just from Ford’s response.

“...Whatever you say, Sixer. If anything’s botherin’ you, you can tell me. I’ll take care of it, bro-bro!” Stan promised, a reassuring smile on his face. He could tell someone was bothering his brother. Of course he wasn’t going to drop the whole thing, but he had to tell Ford he would so that the building submission was squashed.

Ford’s appearance brightened slightly at this, and his smile became a little more sincere.  


_He thinks he’s in the clear. Now I can snoop around. I’ll help you, Sixer!_

Stan considered it a temporary victory, his new scheme. He squeezed his brother’s shoulder before walking off whistling, enjoying the warm sun beating down on his pink face.

* * *

Just weeks later, Stan discovered what was wrong with his twin. He had been on high alert ever since his little confrontation: No one but him could torment his twin! Through close observation of Ford’s little quirks and general dialogue, the cause quickly became clear. Ford was being put down by that someone for his nerd brain. Stan clenched his hands into a pair of fists, ever the fighter. 

_Not on my watch! I’ll defend you, Poindexter._

The next day, Stan, flushed red with determination, waited silently outside where his brother left the library. They had mutually agreed that Stan would occupy himself elsewhere while Ford enjoyed the calm library: Stan was alright with this, as he thought books were stupid. From the shadows, the younger twin watched as a gang of bullies strolled up to his brother. There was a group of three sun-burnt, tough-looking goons behind a chubbier, pastier leader sporting a tough-guy haircut. His face was in a mocking grin, directed toward his brother, whose books were shaking in his anxious grip.

_I’ll wipe that stupid grin off of his face if he even says-_

“Hey guys, look who it is! A dweeb, on his daily routine of making out with his books! What a loser!” the group’s leader jabbed, laughing haughtily. The rest of the gang followed suit, each dark with hostility. The group’s leader was of similar colors, but with some pinky teasing, almost like a stuck-out tongue. Stan’s main focus was Ford, as he had to judge his brother’s reaction before doing anything too rash, no matter how tempting.

“W-why do you all insist on showing up here on the daily? Leave me alone!” Ford pleaded, turning a wine red from frustration. His brother glanced around for an escape, but the gang was blocking the entire sidewalk, and the road was relatively busy at this time of day, as evidenced by the smell of smog in the surrounding air.

“Aw, it’s only because we like you! We care about you! After all, you are our favorite toy…” the leader cooed, contrary to what his hostile colors were giving away. At the snake-like declaration from the gang member, Stan decided to intervene by dashing onto the sidewalk and placing himself between the gang and his brother.

“HEY! Ya know, you should _really_ leave my brother alone, my good _chum_. We don’t want any problems, now, do we?” Stan commented, puffing out his chest in what he believed to be a threatening manner. He raised a purple-and-gold eyebrow that reflected his bravery and cunning manipulation as he took a fighting stance, feet balanced on the concrete.

“Oo, the freak has a twin!” The leader taunted, eyes narrowed. “But wait... this one’s normal! Definitely not scary in the least, though, right, boys?”

At this, Ford looked down at his shoes, face turning more chartreuse from embarrassment. His brother hid his hands behind his back, too, which Stan took as a sign of discomfort. 

“Psh, _he’s the freak_? You’re one to talk, you wet raisin! Did your mom whore around until you popped out, all wrinkled and puce?” Stan quipped, holding his nose like the gang was a bag of smelly garbage. The goons all glanced at one another, knowing what Stan’s fate would likely be; they were, in fact, awaiting a spectacle of blood and tears in his near future.

“Kid, you’re _really_ gonna regret sayin’ that. No one, and I mean _no one_ , insults my ma. Boys, hold him down!” the leader barked, malice written all over his face in, well, puce. Stan felt the wind rush out of his lungs when the older kids shoved him down and onto the sidewalk. Though he was in pain and could barely breathe, his only concern was his brother.

“Ford, RUN! Get out of here! I’ve got this!” Stan yelled, skittering across the concrete and back into a stone wall. At this point, rocks were digging into his palms and his hands were textured from the roughness of the concrete, but he barely felt it as adrenaline began coursing through his veins. Ford, previously frozen in place, took off running across the street and in what appeared to be the direction of their home. Stan could only hope that his twin was looking for help, be it from a stranger or from their parents.

Inevitably, Stan was seized by the band of goons. The leader approached, and spat on Stan, much to the young twin’s disgust. The spit trickled into Stan’s shirt, and he shuddered, heavily uncomfortable with the feeling. Though he tried looking into the ruthless leader’s face, the sun was in his eyes, blinding him.

“Kid.. do you know my name?”

“Ugly?”

One of the leader’s cronies held him in more of a choke-hold in reprimand of his jibe, though Stan decided that it was worth it.

 _At least the spit’s on my shirt now. It was goin’ places I didn’t want it to_.

“Pfft, no. You can call me.. Crampelter.” Crampelter seemed to stop and think for a few precious seconds before socking Stan in the nose, making the latter see stars. Blood abruptly spurted from his nose and trickled down his face and into his mouth. Stan was just barely able to hold back a pained yell, much to the dissatisfaction of his assailants. 

Stan’s determined purple partially faded into a dark, terrified red, but the old color peaked through subtly. Grunting, Stan bit the hand of the person holding him, and the boy howled in pain, reflexively dropping the younger boy onto the pavement. Though it wasn’t a far fall, pavement was decidedly not a pillow, and Stan flinched slightly as his wrist bent a bit backwards due to the angle of impact. Adrenaline quickly took care of that problem, though, and he wiped the blood coming from his nose to prevent it from running more into his mouth. Stan feigned defeat, and looked at Crampelter’s shadow shift more toward him.

 _Bingo. Showtime_. 

Crampelter’s gang looked on as Stan hopped up from his defeated position on the cracked concrete. He proceeded to clench his fists and take a step toward  
Crampelter, throwing a punch at the bully’s face. Stan barely registered the pain of throwing knuckles without cushioning (aside from Crampelter’s chubby cheeks) as he continued throwing hooks, jabs, and uppercuts in revenge for the group hurting his twin’s feelings. 

However, this was short lived, as Crampelter’s years of experience caused Stan to quickly lose the upper hand. In the middle of one of Stan’s sloppier punches, Crampelter caught his arm, flipped him back over onto the concrete, much to the protest of his already sore back. Stan’s pupils shrunk as he trembled at the mercy of the bigger boy, frustrated tears forming in his narrowed eyes.

“You think you’ve won? Kid, you’ve made a grave mistake. Grave, indeed. Boys, go to town with me!”  
Stan proceeded to be pinned down by Crampelter’s sandalled foot and repeatedly pelted with kicks, slaps, and punches from all directions.

_Kick! to the hip._

_Punch! to the neck_ , causing Stan’s throat to gurgle in resistance.

 _Slap! to the face_ , bashing his teeth together uncomfortably.

Any onlookers would hardly be able to see Stan’s emotion related color, as he was thoroughly covered in his own blood from his nose and other related injuries. He had an annoying cut on his forehead that kept making blood run into his eyes, marring his vision.

_At least.. I don’t... have to look.. at their... smug.. faces...!-_

The final kick to his head, however, sent it cracking into the concrete, which made his remaining vision swim. He feebly brought his arms up to his head in attempt to protect it further, but only served to jostle his hip’s bruise. Stan proceeded to (flatteringly) spit some remnants of blood onto the warm concrete, the smell and taste of iron lurking. Just as he was losing consciousness from his swimming head and what felt like a migraine, he heard Ford approaching and his pa yelling at the gang to lay off of him before his head flopped down onto the uncomfortable ground.

* * *

Of course, Stan survived this incident, though not without a few “gnarly souvenirs” as he liked to call them. He had escaped without any permanent damage, though he had a painful concussion and bad bruising making even the mere thought of movement hurt. Stan decided it was all worth it, however, because Ford looked so much better than before, now that someone had finally defended and appreciated him. His whole demeanor had changed, and he seemed to enjoy Stan’s company, especially when they would go to enjoy the metal, sun-warmed swing set after school.

The two were at said swing set a few weeks later, and Ford mentioned the incident hesitantly, his colors a blue-ish purple, resembling a bruise.

“Ya know, Lee, I never properly thanked you for defending me. I really, really appreciate it,” Ford expressed, somewhat unsure of himself. Stan rested a gentle hand on his brother’s shoulder, understanding the intention behind the words, before hugging his precious brother in the sand.

“No prob, Poindexter,” Stan assured. “The only one who’s allowed to make fun of my nerdy brother is me!”

Laughing, Ford gently punched him in the shoulder, making sure to avoid any yellowing bruises. However, Ford looked like he was contemplating something important.

“Hey Stan, does this mean you like books, since you defended me and, in turn, the action of reading them?”

Stan gave him a look to make it appear like he was considering this proposal, and then punched his twin (hard, of course), tackling him into the sandy beach. They tussled on the ground for a minute before flopping onto their backs, staring up at the pink but darkening sky. A chilly ocean breeze graced their features, cooling them down from the barrage of the warm spring heat. 

“To answer your question: Heck no! Books are for nerds, and they always will be. You’ll never catch me dead with one!” Stan declared.

The pair shared a devilish glance before giggling together, both a joyful yellow color in addition to their original palettes. Once they calmed down, they flipped over to face the water more, and they watched the sunset plunge into the water spectacularly, beautiful as can be.

“I love you, Stanley.”

“Love you too, ya big sap.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this first chapter! This fic will upload daily, as I have pre-written most of the chapters (aside from one). Thanks for reading, and feel free to share your thoughts! :)


	2. Mud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teen Stans in this one! Alternate A Tale of Two Stans! ;)  
> This chapter starts swearing, so if you don't like swearing, I advise not continuing. Also, it deals with running away from home and low self-esteem, so tread carefully! Don't want anyone getting hurt. :(

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter (sign to signal skipping songs: *-*-*-*-*):  
> How to Fight Loneliness by Wilco  
> Words That Rhyme With Different, etc. by sports.

Stan had no idea what he had done, but his brother was inching away from him more and more each day. While Ford had once been a calming, welcoming blue when it came to his younger brother, Stan noticed that he had recently started darkening drastically around him. He didn’t know what to do to recover his relationship with Ford, and it was wearing down on his bright, red colors. Only one person seemed to care, and she confronted him about it on their walk to the Juke Joint.

“Stan, what’s gettin’ ya down lately? It hurts to look at ya!” Carla McCorkle, his girlfriend, asked with concern. She was a bit of a nurturing yellow, with some orange mixed in: Stan almost felt warm and fuzzy looking at her. Stan stopped in his tracks and turned toward her, trying to appear unconcerned. 

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, babe. I feel great, especially around you!” A trickle of sweat ran down his temple. “Say, why don’t we head on over to the Juke Joint? Milkshakes on me!”

Carla furrowed her brow, not having it. She had never fallen for his bullshitting: She always knew better than to take his words at face value. “I know what you’re doing, Stan. Avoiding the question isn’t gonna help ya feel better.”

“Have you considered that _maybe_ I don’t want to talk about it? Stop being such a buzzkill and let’s go to the Joint!” Stan hissed, appearance morphing to a blood red from frustration.

Carla gaped at him, scoffed, and yelled, “Fine! If you’re not gonna treat me right, I’ll just go find someone else who actually cares about me! Fuck you, Stan!” before storming off in the direction they had come, ignoring Stan’s frantic calls for her to come back. When he did not succeed at getting her to listen to him, he crashed to the rough ground in resignation, head in his hands. He knew their relationship had slowly been wearing away, but he didn’t think it would go to shit in the span of three minutes. His body became numb from the odd position on the concrete in addition to his thoughts growing cold.

_Why is nothing goin’ right recently? First Poindexter, now Carla…_

Bitter thoughts continued their barrage on his head. He realized he was the variable in both of the equations, that he was the asshole. Stan’s vision became unfocused as his red, angry doubt consumed him.

_It’s all my fault._

Stan’s anger rushed out of him and turned into bitter self-loathing. He decided that enough was enough- he had to do something, anything to make it up to the ones he cared for the most.

_Why stick around and ruin their lives? I should just leave. Hell, they’re probably gonna celebrate when they hear I’m gone._

With new resolve, Stan hopped up from his previous ball of self-loathing, turned on his heels, and trekked home, knowing that the earlier he left Glass Shard Beach, the better it would be for his family and his most-likely-an-ex-girlfriend Carla.

* * *

_Shirts? How many? Ugh, maybe I should just leave ‘em, they’re probably gonna be hard to wash, anyway… cash? Shit, I forgot about gas money! I just got a full tank, but will that be enough to get away?_

Stan didn’t hear the door to his shared room creak open and signify Ford’s return; after all, he was brushing his calloused fingers over the cotton fabric of his shirts, deep in thought. He also didn’t hear the questioning gasp come from his brother as Stan zipped up his black duffel bag, finally done with packing after deciding to bring just one change of clothes with him. He only noticed his brother’s presence when he turned around to grab his wallet off of the top of their shared dresser.

“O-oh, hey, Sixer!! What’s up??” Stan stuttered, a bit startled by his brother’s appearance, in more ways than one. He hadn’t expected his brother back in the house for another hour, which meant he had been caught red-handed in his escape, much to his annoyance.

Ford’s recently darkened, ambitious palette gained a concerned red tint.

“Stan, what is all of this?” He gestured with his hands. “Are you going somewhere?”

_Shit, what do I say? He’s gonna find out sooner or later, but I didn’t wanna be with him when he does!_

Stan tried to look abashed as he lightly scuffed his shoe on the shabby carpet, eyes cast to the side.

“Haha, yeah, funny you should ask! I was gonna go have a.. uh... beach sleepover! I thought I’d need some clothes and my wallet just in case of emergency, ya know? I was plannin’ on goin’ stargazing alone tonight.” Stan lied smoothly, a shy but reassuring grin on his face. He knew that if he appeared to be embarrassed by the seemingly educational trip, his brother wouldn’t be as suspicious.

Ford grunted in affirmation, the concern quickly fading away to nothing as he crossed the room to his wooden work desk, plopping his bag down on the floor with a thud that was most likely due to his vast inventory of books he carried around.

While Ford was getting situated in his work-space, Stan realized he felt the need to at least say goodbye before leaving his brother for God-knows-how-long, yet he felt unsure of how to approach the topic without giving away anything to his observant brother. He morphed into an awkward green, hands clammy, before he began to spin what could be his final words to his brother for a long, long time.

“Uh, Sixer… I hope ya know, I do care about you. I’m happy you’re goin’ somewhere you like, and I will always support ya.”

Ford looked up from his spot at his desk that he had taken just a few seconds before, a bemused expression on his face. He cocked an eyebrow before slightly rolling his eyes.

“What’s this all about, Stan? I’m kinda busy right now: Can we talk about it later?” Ford asked, a reddish-purple appearance showing his annoyance directed at his twin. The elder twin proceeded to take out his textbook and mindlessly flip through the pages, trying but failing to look like he was actually busy.

Stan gave a quick, hollow laugh, nodded his head, and walked out the door. Of course, his twin did not follow. Stan headed to the kitchen, scratched down a note on a piece of yellow paper from his ma’s “spirit journal” saying he was “going out” and would be back before midnight, and hightailed it out of the house. He managed not only to leave in a short amount of time, he made it out without having to lie to any other family members. Stan glanced back at his childhood home one final time before taking off in his car, riding off and out of Glass Shard Beach, hands in a vice-like grip on the steering wheel.

* * *

Ford had been frantically searching for his brother, his _twin_ , for what felt like forever. Of course, it had only been a few weeks since Stan’s disappearance, but he was extremely guilty for completely dismissing his brother the last time he saw him. Ford had a feeling Stan had just left and had not been kidnapped like his ma seemed to believe, but he supposed anything was possible. His pa, on the other hand, was elated at the change, and expressed his thoughts while Ford was walking across the kitchen tile to examine his list of locations where he had already searched for Stan.

“Serves that knucklehead right. I was lookin’ for an excuse to throw him out by the scruff of his neck, and he just up and left for me. Did me a favor, that boy,” Filbrick commented, colored as his standard, muddy mustard yellow. The man casually shook out his newspaper, seemingly oblivious to the smack-down he was about to receive.

Ford stopped in his tracks.

_Don’t overreact, don’t overreact, don’t overreact…_

“Well, _Pa_ , I’m not gonna stop looking for him until I find him at least one final time. I’m not going to college until I see my brother again and, at worst, get closure, but rekindle our bond at best. So, if I were you, I’d start helping out so your _future millionaire_ can stop worrying and go to college. Sound like a deal?” Ford deadpanned, teeth clenched. He somewhat regretted lashing out, but he knew he had to try to get his stubborn father to see some sense.

For what was the first time in his life, as far as he could remember, Ford witnessed his pa’s colors transition: The angry, bruise-like purple he moved into was almost, almost worth the sight had Ford not caused it. He had honestly thought his pa was incapable of expressing emotion.

“...You will be going to college, you little _freeloader_...” Pa growled threateningly, face trembling in sheer rage. “...and you will make millions for this family. You would’ve turned out as badly as your _worthless_ brother, had you not possessed an ounce of brains. You’re the lucky twin, so do yourself a favor and _do what I say_. Sound like a deal, _son_?”

Ford rolled his eyes, scoffed, and walked out of the room, feet stomping loudly in his sheer aggravation.

* * *

Stan had been doing well for himself (at least, in his own opinion, which is all that counted). But of course, he just _had_ to be interrupted by the cops catching him _speeding_ of all things. Apparently he had destroyed some property while he was at it (he didn’t remember this specific detail), so he was being taken into the dark, cold county jail. He thought that would be the end of that little inconvenience, but _no_ , of course his life had to be made difficult by a cop, stained gray with chronic boredom, who stopped him before he made it two steps out the door of his small holding cell (which was not cold or dark, luckily).

“A social services officer wants to have a chat with you, Pines. Please follow me this way if you know what’s good for ya,” he droned, barely looking up from his crossword puzzle he had carefully filled out as he scratched out a clue he had solved. He put it down on his chair afterward and gestured toward Stan to follow him.

Stan had no idea why anyone would want to seek _him_ out specifically, but he followed the cop anyway, not thinking of any alternative as they walked through the empty hall. Once he saw the officer in question in the lobby room of the office, he regretted his decision to come peacefully.

“Stanley Pines? My name is Officer Karen Short. Come with me, please, we have an issue we need to discuss,” the kind-looking woman asked, but it was clear she meant business. Even her colors were the stereotypical “I care, I promise!” that made him slightly suspicious, as he had only just met the woman.

“Issue? Ma’am, I dunno what you’re talkin’ about. Is this about the speedin’? I promise, it’ll never happen again.” Stan folded his hands behind his back in submission, trying to communicate that he had " _absolutely_ " learned his lesson.

“No, it’s a bit different than that. I have a missing person’s report from your family, filed a few weeks ago. I’m guessing you’ll want to take this someplace more.. private.”

_Missing person’s case? What?_

Stan followed the officer into a secluded room, where they both sat down across from one another at a bland, white table. The room itself was otherwise empty, with poor lighting that would likely be difficult to focus in for the average person.

Officer Short cleared her throat to gain his attention, and he shifted his gaze to her face, still that _caring_ orange, contrary to her analytical, probing words.

“It says here that you ‘wrote a note expressing you’d be home before midnight,’ yet you told your brother you were ‘sleeping over at the beach to go stargazing.’ When you didn’t return as you had promised, your mother and your brother contacted the authorities.”

_But not Pa. Figures._

“...What’s it to ya? I made the active choice to leave, and as a seventeen year old, that’s perfectly legal!” Stan claimed, his face an embarrassing pink. His cheeks were hot with unease, though he continued to bullshit his way through the meeting.

“Stanley, you’re still a minor. I’m going to contact your family and bring you back home, unless you’re in a bad family situation. Now, I must ask: Have you been hurt by any one of your loved ones?” Officer Short inquired. At this point, Stan was uncomfortable with her stagnant colors, which caused him to become flustered.

_As if she cares! What is wrong with this lady? Yeesh!_

“What?! No way, lady! My family treated me as well as they should have, especially for me being a screw-up! I was doin’ them a _favor,_ leaving early,” Stan declared before fully realizing what he had revealed. Officer Short wrote something down on the paper, stood up, and crossed the room to his side of the table. He sunk down into his chair, slumped over the table.

“Kid, every child is worth something, no matter what others think. Would your family have filed a missing person’s case on you if they didn’t care? I think not. So hold yourself in at least some sort of regard and get yourself together, because I’m going to contact your mother now.”

Officer Short finally shifted to a passionate red in the midst of her speech, as she seemed to be proud of her speech. Stan relaxed, now knowing she wasn’t an alien overlord or something of the like, comparable to a character that one could probably find in one of Ford’s comic books.

Stan decided to give one final attempt to clear his name, though it was a feeble attempt.

“N-no! Ma’am, I don’t want to go back! They’re better without me.”

Officer Short did not appear to hear his plea, as she was mostly out of the room when he finished it. He banged his fist on the table, angry at how royally he had screwed up. Stan wanted to leave, but he knew he stood no chance of making out of the police station, so he sat back in his cushioned chair and combed his red fingers through his hair, frustration coming off of him in waves.

* * *

*-*-*-*-*  
Just hours later, Stan was guided into the lobby where two-thirds of his family waited for him. He squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced, awaiting a tongue-lashing from Ford, if not his ma.

“STANLEY! Oh, Stanley, my boy!” Ma gushed, a pinkish-red of joy, love, and acceptance. Stan blushed in her grasp, having forgotten what her old hugs felt like after not receiving one since his middle school years because, no matter how hard she tried, he thought they were for wimps.

However, Stan’s eyes were on the figure behind his ma. Ford was awkwardly standing in front of the corner seat of the lobby, a periwinkle with red cheeks signaling his new, now-regretful attitude. Stan could tell his brother blamed himself for this mess, so the younger twin gently let go of his ma and walked over to his brother, enveloping him into a hug that was a long-time coming. He felt Ford tighten his grip on his shoulders, not seeming to want to let go of his brother.

“I… I’m sorry, Stan.”

“It’s not your fault, Ford. Just my dumb head mixing up my feelings, yeah?”

Ford tucked his head into the nook of Stan’s neck: The latter felt the fabric of his shirt getting damp, but he didn’t comment on it. Instead, the reunited Pines family thanked Officer Short and walked out the door, the fresh air and bright blue sky greeting them and serving as a great start to a new beginning. As far as they knew, the future was bright, yet they walked into the unknown all the same.

* * *

Stan felt his back hit the ground outside of his home, slightly knocking the wind out of his lungs. His head bumped off the pavement, which he knew would leave a nice lump. The teen offered his brother, his _rock_ a high-six stained with yellow, naive hope, but was denied with an abrupt woosh of the curtains to their bedroom window closing. Stan dropped his hand to his side and it subconsciously formed a fist due to his pent-up anger.

_I should’ve appreciated the new Ford while I could._

Within a few months of his return, he had gotten kicked to the curb, for _real_ this time. Stan had fucked up his brother’s project when hitting the table it rested on, and God, he regretted his actions. He knew he would probably never be able to make millions to redeem himself, but he didn’t even care about that.

_I just want my twin to care about me._

His previous run-away felt like a dream in comparison to the cold, unforgiving streets that awaited him. He knew deep in his heart, however, that he would never get his wish. That he was worthless, no matter what anyone said. Worthless, WORTHLESS!

_Worthless. Prime street-rat material. Useless. Knucklehead. Good for nothing. The extra._

Stan took on a cold blue exterior as he stomped over to his car, kicking over an unfortunate trash bin and marring it with a dent. He opened the door, slammed it shut when he was sitting in the driver’s seat, and shoved his key into the ignition. He wanted so badly to go upstairs and beg for his brother’s forgiveness, yet deep inside, he knew he would never receive it. He settled for pulling out of his parking space and onto the road, driving away from the place he once called home with tears trickling down his heated face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to share your thoughts, and the next two chapters will come out on 7/26! :)  
> (I am going on a day trip Thursday, so I will be posting two chapters to make up for the one I will be missing Thursday. Sorry for the inconvenience!)


	3. Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stanley's reflecting on his time spent homeless, in maaaaannnnyyyyy funks, and newly motivated in the span of a decade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter, as marked by the "*-*-*-*-*" (specifically immediately play Matches, then fast forward to the others, you know the drill):  
> Start: Matches by The Format (you should totally check them out btw if you like indie rock)  
> Middle: The Distance by Cake (this one I recommend the most of all the songs to actually play, it really would set the mood)  
> End: High and Dry by Red Wanting Blue (another great band I love them)

_Three years._

Stan slumped in the driver’s seat of his car, barely processing what day it was. Today was the third anniversary of Stan’s rude awakening, courtesy of his pa. He supposed he _could_ thank the man for opening his eyes to the real world, if he was grasping for some sort of compliment. 

_No way. He separated me from my twin. Fuck him._

If Stan learned one thing on the streets, it was how to disguise his emotions, similar to the officer he could barely remember the name of. He drummed his fingers on the sturdy, smooth foam of his steering wheel.  
 _Snort? Sport? ...Short? Yeah, that’s it. What an inspiration._

At the time, he had been curious as to how the woman kept what appeared to be a facade of caring orange as her palette, not once wavering. With all of his reminiscing time he had while evading his enemies and skipping states, he had figured out that, well, appearing caring was probably in the job description.

_Duh! What kid would let up and go home if her palette was cold and uncaring?_

Therefore, over the years, he took to practicing manipulating his colors in short bursts. He supposed it would come in handy when hiding from his creditors seeking money or other _parts of value_ , and after practicing for a few months, he could mimic colors for a couple minutes. Hell, it had even come in handy a few times: That one time with the goons and their bats, the drug run, evading cops…

However, he did take one precaution: He always, _always_ kept a little baggie of pills on him for the express purpose of making the transition more fluid and rapid when he was _really_ in a pinch. Stan could feel them now in his pocket, their constant presence giving him some semblance of comfort.

_Only needed them for Rico, who I stole them from!_

Chuckling to himself, he flipped his lighter into ignition, and treated himself to a cigarette and a toast to his past, the smoke filling up the interior of his car _almost_ suffocatingly.

* * *

*-*-*-*-*

~A Few Years Later~

Stan awoke to blackness: He just barely remembered pulling over for a well-deserved nap, thinking he was safe. He only knew he was awake because he could smell… sweat? Gym locker room? He tried moving his arms, but his hands were cuffed (he could feel the cold metal digging into his wrists), and with his eyes blindfolded, he had no real hope of solving the first problem.

_...Where the fuck am I?_

His head hurt, and his temples throbbed rhythmically. His senses felt like sludge, and he had no idea how he would worm his way out of this.

“Finally awake, _S618_? Or should I say, Stanley Pines?” a deep voice rasped from a few feet away. Stan felt a shiver as it coursed through his body, because by the first word, he knew exactly who he was dealing with.

_Rico._

“...Cut to the chase, Rico- Jesus fuck, did you hit me with a brick?- what do you want from me? I’ve retired from keeping track of my debts, and it’s obvious you’ve been busy...” Stan sardonically asked. Since he was likely not gonna have a tongue by the end of the whole endeavor, he thought it wise to put it to good use one final time.

_But not in a lewd way._

Rico laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Funny as always, Pines. You see, _gringo_ , I’m a man of my word. Did I not promise that I would collect this.. debt.. you’ve been given? I know it’s been six years, but I thought you’d at least remember our time together!”   
Stan realized that it actually _had_ been that long. He did, after all, know that it was the middle of January, but he didn’t really care to remember the year. There were more important things to remember, such as survival, he supposed. He pulled at his cuffs again, testing their grip on his wrists; luckily, he had a little wiggle room.

“I see you know _exactly_ what I mean, considering how you’re about as crimson as you’ll be in, say... an hour, all splattered on the pavement.”

_Of course you did, nitwit. Doesn’t mean I’m coughing up the cash._

“Cash, Pines? No, I’m thinking something a little more… drastic. Say, which would you rather keep: Fingers or toes?” Rico emphasized his questions with the snapping of what sounded like hedge trimmers. The sound rang through his ears, as his lack of sight somewhat improved his other senses.

_Is that why I can taste the blood from my freshly-bitten cheek? Ew._

“Oopsie me, did I say that out loud? I mean, I’d like to keep my fingers, thanks.” Stan knew Rico would do the opposite of what he asked, of course, so he decided being able to run was more important at this point in time. He made a show of shifting his colors to a fearful red.

“Fingers it is, my friend. Let’s start with a pinky and build from there, yeah?”

Rico’s footsteps came closer to his location, and Stan wasn’t having it. His heart rate picked up, and he decided to try and solve his vision problem, now that his adrenaline reserves had finally kicked in.

“You’re not gonna let me look you in the face while ya cause me _utterly painful sufferin’_?”

Stan had no desire to actually watch the delight on his captor’s face, but he had to be able to gauge when he had an opening so he could use one of his _seeecreeettt_ emergency bobby pins he kept on his person for these exact scenarios: one could never be too careful when dealing with angry mob bosses for a living.

“Fair point, Pines.” Rico enthused. “I’m almost proud, _amigo_. Allow me to remove your blindfold for you.”

Stan kept his eyes closed for an extra couple seconds while he blinked the harsh light out of his eyes. When he finally got them open, he quickly took in his surroundings.

_Wooden shed, middle of the day, door behind him on the right. No car keys in his pockets, either._

He saw Rico had his back to him in his attempt to seem more foreboding, which in turn revealed the bulge of his car keys in his captor’s back-right pocket. Stan shifted slightly in his uncomfortable wooden chair, trying to get better leverage for his next problem.

_Mistake #1: Taking your eyes off of Stan Pines._

Stan sneakily pulled one of his six emergency bobby pins out of the inside of his pants pocket: Subtle, yet useful. He just barely concealed the pin in his palm before Rico turned around, showing him the obnoxiously large pair of hedge clippers with a shit-eating grin on his face. Stan wore a grin of a like nature with his next comment.

“..You compensatin’ for somethin’, Rico?”

Rico scowled, face turning slightly chartreuse from embarrassment.

_Score._

“Creative, Pines. Hold out your left pinky.”

_Here goes nothin’. Pinky, if I don’t succeed, I’m sorry._

“Wouldn’t a hammer be more fun? Break the bone, then chop it?” Stan suggested, a mischievous glint in his eye. He was really playing up his acceptance and resignation to his fate, in hopes that Rico would listen to his awful suggestions. Stan’s pinky reflexively curled in on itself, appearing to be hiding from its fate.

Rico seemed to consider Stan’s proposition while the latter was starting to sweat in anxiety.

“Great idea, Pines. Maybe I’ll do that after this first finger tip. Now, breathe easy… or don’t.”

Stan made a show of straining against his handcuffs, attempting to get away. He realized, however, that whoever had been restraining him only duct-taped his ankles together instead of tying them down.

_What an idiot. Maybe he should be in my place! Well, he likely will be after this._

With a deep breath, Stan brought his bound feet into Rico’s wide-open groin. Stan only slightly sympathized as he quickly picked the lock on his cuffs, cut the duct tape around his ankles with the now forgotten hedge clippers lying by Rico’s side, and patted Rico down to look for his precious car keys, which he had registered as missing earlier. Rico, of course, was clutching his smarting jewels in utter agony, colors quickly flashing from red hot pain to blue-ish shock to puce rage. Stan shoved past the bored, gray guards who were stationed at the door before he took off sprinting, gaining a head start on the pair. Stan just barely heard the threat Rico yelled, which was surprising, considering how he was still down after the ordeal his poor junk had gone through.

“ _PINES, I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN AGAIN, AND YOU’LL BE VERY, VERY SORRY!_ ”

Stan danced around the wooded path, dodging the occasional poorly-aimed bullet from the guards behind him. After around a minute of full-out sprinting, he lost hold on his fake fear and transitioned back into his cold blue, mullet whipping behind him as he increased the distance between his captors and himself. Eventually he slowed to a jog, huffing to catch his breath. Stan attempted to focus on the unwavering _pitter-patter_ of his worn shoes on the forest floor, trying to find a rhythm to expand his energy reserves for as long as possible.

_Made it. Where the hell am I? More importantly, where’s my car?_

_Be rational._

_Channel your inner Ford._

_Be.. rational.._

In the time he had spent gathering his thoughts, he made it to the edge of the forest where he saw a worn-but-paved road. His appearance brightened slightly in relief while he looked for any sign of a car, still doubled over trying to catch his breath: Lucky for him, there was a normal-looking Ford Cortina rolling down the road. He dashed to the middle of the road, sticking out his arms and frantically gesturing for the car to pull over. His colors were luckily already a desperate-looking blue, so his show was convincing.

The car pulled over, and the driver rolled down the window. A middle-aged man looked out at him from the driver’s seat, a kind yellow.

“Is there a problem, lad?” the man inquired, tilting his head slightly in analysis.  
Stan doubled over, further trying to catch his breath, before asking where he was.

“Hm.. we’re in the outskirts of New Mexico, kid. It’s, uh, Thursday, January 21st, according to my newspaper.”

“Thank you! Say, did you see a red 1965 El Diablo along the road on your way here?” Stan asked, subtly crossing his fingers in hopes that he would see his beloved car again.  
The man contemplated for a few seconds, then a flash of recognition dashed his face.

“Yes, lad, I did! It was pulled over strangely on the side of the road a few minutes behind me. It was near a sign for Albuquerque. Now, I must be on my way, kid, but I bid you good luck!” the stranger said hurriedly after checking his watch. 

*-*-*-*-*

Stan awkwardly watched the man drive away, much more reckless than he had been cruising before.

_A few minutes? Welp, better get walkin’._

* * *

_By a few minutes, did this guy mean a fucking hour? I’ve been walking for forever!_

A few times he had considered running along the white side of the road, but he knew that he was weakened, hungry, and generally probably not capable of avoiding falling on his face. He hoped his depressed blue coloring would attract some additional help, but no other cars drove by, likely due to it being a Thursday during what seemed to be the early afternoon.

_January 21st, and it’s a decently warm winter day. Lucky me._

Stan wasn’t comfortable temperature-wise, but he had endured worse. He squeezed his arms around him in an attempt to lessen the effect of the chilling wind on his battered body. Stan’s thoughts had gone to food and how he would kill for a burger when, in the distance, he spotted his perfect _El Diablo_ , his Stanmobile.

_Fuck yeah! Stanley Pines isn’t goin’ down today!_

He took off in a sprint, eager to reach his precious car. On his way, he took the keys out of his pocket, ready to unlock the door as soon as possible. After about twenty seconds of sprinting (he was, after all, quite experienced with this exercise, due to his life on the run), he made it to his vehicle, where he frantically unlocked the door and sank into the driver’s seat, chest burning. After sitting for a few seconds, he looked around the inside of his car for a water bottle, or _any_ drink to quench his thirst that was clawing at his throat.

_Please? Luck, don’t fail me now! Not there, not there, not there… wait, how about under the seat? Maybe one rolled under there!_

Sure enough, a slightly battered bottle was under the seat. He was a bit annoyed at having to get out of the car to look for it, but the sweet nectar that was the water inside was worth it. Stan uncapped the bottle, took a deep swig of the precious liquid, and felt his mouth become less uncomfortably dry.

_Stan Pines, you devil. Survived yet another encounter._

Before driving off, Stan took inventory of his remaining belongings. While his meager pile of savings from before had suspiciously disappeared (he assumed Rico or his goons had filched it), he also noticed a lack of his trusty pills in his pocket.

_Rico took back what he thought is his. Wonderful._

While he had some left over somewhere in his car, he had lost most of his stock, which meant he had to risk his life yet _again_ to acquire more from the nearest city.

_Wait. Didn’t that guy say there was a sign for Albuquerque around here?_

Stan glanced out the window, saw a sign signifying Albuquerque was around an hour north from his location. He took off, driving away from his bad experience a slightly more battered man, but with a few goals in mind: Finding shelter, eating, making some easy money, and getting a couple pills, for emergencies.

_A whole agenda awaits me. Albuquerque, here I come!_

Stan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, slipping into his thoughts through his subconscious tick.

_Maybe I should call Ma while I’m there. Scrounging up some change should be easy enough._

_...and maybe Ford._

He gave a tired sigh, ran his hands down his face (always the risky driver), and went back to practicing his color manipulation, as he would any other normal day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading the first of two chapters released today! I had a verrrryyyy long day, so I am releasing the other chapter later today (by 4 pm EST 7/26/19). Sorry for the wait, but this author needs some sleep before doing the HTML for it! :)
> 
> Have a great day leading up till then! Feel free to share your thoughts. :)


	4. Onyx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The portal incident's documented in this chapter. Be prepared for brothers turning on brothers, and the loss of a certain Pines twin!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter, skip ahead when the "*-*-*-*-*" shows :):  
> 1\. In Too Deep by Sum 41  
> 2\. Down by Jason Walker

Stan had been minding his own business when life decided to throw him yet another curve ball.

Of course, he hadn't been expecting anything other than a harsh beating, but here he was, with actual mail. His brow scrunched in confusion as he worried his lip, curious to see the contents of the pristine white envelope.

_Who in the hell would ever want to contact a deadbeat like me?_

He could think of many potential candidates. 

_Is it a threat hidden in some boring old mail? I can't imagine Rico being so... indirect..._

_Hmm... Just some random invitation to "salvation", maybe? I shouldn't have chatted with those nuns..._

_Ugh. Let's just get this over with..._

Stan reached into his pocket and grasped his trusty switchblade.

_Hah, you're being newly christened as a letter-opener!_

He gently cut the envelope across the top, and flipped it over: Out floated a colored piece of card-stock with the words "Gravity Falls" written across the front. Relief rushed through him at the sight of the slip, though he was slightly confused by the sight of it.

_...A post-card? Is this a wrong address kinda deal?_

He investigated the card further and read the message on the back:

_“PLEASE COME!” -FORD_

Stan gave a mirthless laugh. He scrubbed at his eyes and reread the post-card, just to clarify he had processed the words correctly.

_Yup. Was correct the first time. To go, or not to go?_

He considered the consequences. It had, after all, been ten full years since he had last seen his brother.

Stan knew, above all, that countless things would probably go wrong.

_Meh. Nothing to lose._

The room he had paid for was only in his name for a few more hours, so it wasn’t much of a loss to jump states to go and see what his darling brother had in store for him. With a new but weak resolve, Stan packed his belongings into his duffel bag and walked out into his newest adventure.

* * *

He was getting sick and tired of the pitying glances everybody kept throwing his way. He knew his onyx hair and gray, lifeless skin displayed just how resigned he was in this world: He was practically a walking corpse. Stan denied help at every opportunity it was offered, as he knew nothing good would come of it. He was, after all, worthless. Even his body agreed with him. However, he soldiered on, determined to see his brother once again. He didn’t know where he’d go afterward, but he did know he hardly cared.

* * *

_Sixer, where the hell are you?!_

Stan had been travelling for countless hours in Ass Crack of Nowhere, Oregon. He was running dangerously low on gas for his Diablo (his only remaining love), and was tired of driving in circles. Any time he tried asking for directions from gas station attendants or locals, they treated him like he was a ticking time bomb, ready to explode. Stan frustratedly smacked his hands on the steering wheel, which caused him to swerve out of his lane slightly.

“Fuck! This! One more turn, then I’m done!”

This was the turn that led him to Gravity Falls, Oregon. Stan rolled his empty eyes, cursing his luck.

* * *

_He’s family. He won’t bite.. hopefully. God, how will he react, seeing me like this?_

Stan was outfitted in a battered, stained jacket, and a worn pair of gray sweatpants. His hands were covered by a pair of blue mittens he had filched from a gas station just hours before, and the warm fur that lined the inside of the fabric tickled his skin slightly. While he was anxiously quaking in his boots, his teeth chattered in response to the harsh winter weather.

Stan knocked on the door before he could overthink it further, and it quickly opened. A crossbow was thrust in his face, and Stan took an instinctive step back, raising his arms to protect his head.

“HAVE YOU COME TO STEAL MY EYES?!” Ford bellowed, seemingly under the influence of, well, at least _some_ substance. Stan knew the nerd would never indulge in alcohol (though it had been ten years- it wasn’t something he would dismiss as a possibility).

“Uh, yeesh, Poindexter…” Stan remarked sardonically. “Knew I could count on you for a warm welcome.”

Stan barely had time to register his elder brother grabbing him by the shirt and shining an obnoxiously bright light directly into his eyeballs. Pupils shrinking, Stan felt a hot flash of anger burst through him. He shoved his brother back, therefore freeing himself from his weak grasp.

“What the hell is wrong with you?! It’s been ten years, and you’re already treating me like I’m irrelevant, Sixer! Tell me what’s goin’ on!” Stan snarled, face flaring a red-tinted black in unbridled anger.

Ford rolled his eyes, annoyed with the question. He glanced at Stan with a condescending glower.

“I had to make sure you weren’t.. well, you wouldn’t understand, now, would you? Now come.. I must show you something.  
”  
Stan scoffed at this. He took in Ford’s appearance- colored bright yellow, with cyan flecks.

_Huh. I’ve never seen that before.. of course he decides to be “oh-so-unique!”_

The younger twin expressed this observation to his brother, voice wavering slightly in what he thought was concern, though he was more-so just curious as this point in time.

“I-it’s nothing! None of your business! Not your concern!” Ford sputtered, looking around with paranoia in his blue(?) eyes. His brother’s hands began to tremble uncontrollably.

_Ah. It’s caffeine._

Stan decided not to ask about it again.

* * *

The brothers made it into the portal room, and Ford turned around to give his brother an explanation. However, he seemed to finally take in his brother’s appearance, given his sharp intake of breath.

“Stan.. why are you…?” Ford gestured toward his twin’s dark hair and overall unhealthy look. Stan rolled his eyes, dismissing the concern, before further scrutinizing the large, metal structure.

“Does it matter? What the hell _is_ this mess, Ford?! Do grace me with an explanation!”

“It’s a portal.. A trans-dimensional gateway into other parts of our multiverse. In layman’s terms, it’s a hole punched in our dimension in order to access other dimensions, similar or different to our own,” Ford explained, walking closer to the object in question. He raised his arms in a _woosh_ , and abruptly dropped them back to his sides. “I built this, and now... it can’t be allowed to be operated! Do you remember our dream of sailing away, hunting for treasure?”

Stan’s exterior brightened considerably, more yellow due to his sudden hope. He clenched his hands into fists, finally excited for something other than coming across a forgotten dollar on the street.

“Are.. are we finally gonna go sailin’, Poindexter? I knew you’d come around eventually! I promise I won’t let you down-”

“No. I need you to take this part of the portal’s blueprints, take a boat and bring it beyond the edge of the planet! Hide this journal! Please, Stan, do this for me! You’re the only person I can trust anymore!” Ford pleaded, desperation written on his face. He did not consider, however, Stan’s regrets and woes rising to the surface, brought about by the crushing of his hope.

Stan immediately darkened again, this time with more of a red tone.

_He’s dismissing me AGAIN?! I’ll show HIM trust!_

Stan made a show of “submitting” to his new task, and somehow got his brother to hand over the book, even though he _knew_ his colors revealed his motives. Luckily, Ford was disillusioned from everything but his own problems, and he had never been good at reading emotions in the first place. He quickly took out his lighter he carried around for his more... _questionable_ habits.

“Ya want this stupid book destroyed?! Fine! Burning it’s the same, anyway!” Stan ignited the lighter and brought the book closer to the flame, the heat itself licking the pages.

“NO! My research!”

Ford tackled Stan, and the brothers tussled on the filthy ground, both trying to gain control of the journal. The two backed into close proximity of a control panel, and Ford kicked his brother into an extremely hot part of the side panelling, which appeared to be some sort of rune. Stan barely registered that he had fallen before screaming out in emotional and physical pain.

_fuckfUckjESUSHELL-_

_“-tan! Stan, are you alright?!”_

Stan’s colors fluctuated from bright, searing red to a darker crimson, and finally ended up as a dark blue representing his pain and despair. The younger twin got up to his feet, clearly due to his adrenaline, and began approaching his brother, rage written on his worn face. Ford backed up, wary of his brother’s murderous look. His hands were up in what appeared to be an attempt at a placating gesture.

“Some brother _you_ turned out to be. Was your silly research worth it?! You and your stupid ego! Fuck you! Did you even think about me a _single_ time while you were fooling around in this fucking basement?! I’ve almost _died_ hundreds of times _this past year_!” Stan yelled, unknowingly backing Ford up into a lever protruding from the floor. A faint purr was audible from the portal, before it turned into a loud rumbling. Cyan, comparable to Ford’s own color, radiated from the swirling in the middle of the triangle.

“ _YOU_ were the one who left _ME_! How do you think I felt, left all alone by my only friend! Quit being such a _knucklehead_ and listen to reason!” Ford yelled, yet his colors did not shift. His trench coat began whipping in the wind that was coming from the structure, and Stan squinted against the wind, not _believing_ what he had just heard.

_Knucklehead._

“REALLY? _I’M_ the knuckleheaded one?! _YOU’RE_ the one who’s screwing me over, just like you did all those years ago! Give me the fucking journal, and I’ll get out of your stupid hair!” Stan hissed.

Over his tirade, he had not processed how his steps felt.. _lighter_ , almost, and that the rumbling from the portal crescendoed into an ear-splitting straining of metal and gravity.

Stan ignored the warning bells going off in his head and he gave his brother a hard shove, not unlike the one his brother had given him moments earlier. He felt victory rush through him as he watched his brother land _hard_ on his elbow, nearly flat on the ground.

However, Ford unexpectedly took flight, much to Stan’s surprise. The younger twin could only watch as Ford proceeded to be dragged through the air and closer to the activated portal by the tail of his coat.

Stan gawked, barely processing what he had just done.

_FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!!!_

He brought an arm up to shield his eyes from the brightening light, trying to prevent himself from being blinded. Ford’s face morphed into an expression of biting fear, mouth open in a silent scream while his brow was scrunched in determination to _survive_.

“S-Stanley! Help me!” Ford cried frantically, flailing around in the air. The _distress_ impeded Stan’s reaction time, and he clenched his teeth in an attempt to ground himself.

Stan whipped his head around, looking for a saving grace, or _anything_ that would work.

“O-oh shit, what do I do?! Sixer, what do I do?!”

In one last desperate movement, Ford threw his journal out of the vacuum and at Stan’s feet. The pages flipped around in the wind coming from the depths of the portal, while Stan felt his desperation increasing exponentially while he tried _so hard_ to help his brother. His hands trembled while he worried his lip unconsciously, watching Ford’s proximity from the portal close in. His brother was _somehow_ still that obnoxious yellow, while Stan’s color was beyond staying stagnant due to his torrent of emotions.

“STANLEY, DO SOMETHI-!” Ford screamed, before..

..before he was dragged into the vortex without a trace.

The portal deactivated, and Stan dropped to his knees in sheer disbelief. His skin was maroon, showing his shock, while his hair and other features were a dreary blue; after all, he felt at fault for what had just gone down.

“No, NO! STANFORD!”

*-*-*-*-*

He immediately tried restarting the portal, but without help, he knew the attempt was fruitless. Brushing his windblown mullet out of his face, Stan took to quickly flipping through the journal, repeatedly saying “no, no, no, no!” until he came across the end message. He could only stare at the back cover, and he felt helpless in regards to the beast of _guilt, anger, depression, sadness,_ and _befuddlement_ that reared its ugly head right in front of him.

_CONTINUED IN JOURNAL #2._

_Sh..shit! There’s at least another one, if not more?! What am I gonna do..? How am I gonna save you, Sixer?!_

Resigned, Stan journeyed back upstairs after trying and failing to restart the portal to the best of his abilities. He crashed in what seemed to be Ford’s room, staring at nothing but the ceiling for countless hours as his back cherished the somewhat comfortable, plush couch cushions; after all, he needed to plan out how he was going to get his brother back, and his life was as good as over until then. He grit his teeth, grounding himself to his new path in acceptance, as he knew he would need to be content with his fate if he was to continue on in steadfast determination.

_My only goal is to save Ford._

_Ford’s all that counts._

_I won’t stop until.. until I rescue my brother._

_No matter what it takes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this chapter! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Just a warning for tomorrow's chapter: It's a bit shorter than the others. Sorry about that, but it's just a shorter scene. The last two chapters make up for it! :)
> 
> Feel free to share your thoughts! :)


	5. Prism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stan interacts with one of the only lights of his life, and an anniversary takes place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter:  
> Hope on a Rope by Red Wanting Blue (sorry for the repeat band but I love them and it's fitting haha)

Days turned into months and months trickled into years as Stan kept chugging along, trying to make a living for himself while haphazardly fixing what could only be considered a scientific nightmare. Though his goal remained the same, he still had to make ends meet to keep himself alive, let alone keep the mortgage and property in his brother’s name. He supposed it was his way of apologizing for ruining his brother’s life, aside from putting his everything into working on the portal.

_At least one good thing came outta bein’ twins- it’s easy as pie to pose as Sixer._

Stan knew he lacked the scientific jargon and the general smarts to be a perfect impersonation of his brother, but his looks were more than enough to fly under the radar of the somewhat-dippy townsfolk. The only other “perk” to living in what he’d once dubbed “The Murder Hut,” (now known as the “Mystery Shack” for obvious reasons), if one could call it a perk, was that his color had improved to the point of being “mysterious” rather than deadly. The townspeople still looked at him in confusion, of course, but not because he looked like a dead man living; no, it was because he was a brand new type of anomaly.  
Oddly enough (at least to him), he had taken on blue as his general palette instead of his long-forgotten reds.

_Blue face, blue hands… yeesh.._

However, a couple parts of his face stood out: Instead of his color scheme consisting of complementary colors, he was more, well, _sectioned_ off in blocks of certain colors. Stan guessed it was symbolic of _something_ , but he wasn’t his mother, who could connect the dots between colors at the drop of a hat.

_Purple eyes and purple ears? People must think I got into a fist fight!_

And of course, his hair was stark gray at the age of 51- not terribly uncommon, of course, but hair usually matched emotion just like every other part of the body. Delightful. Not to mention his big, red nose standing out from a mile away on his face seemed to be there to stay. Stan continued examining his features in the mirror (his own reflection was the closest he could get to his actual brother as far as he knew) before Soos, his recently-hired handyman, peeked his head in the hallway, causing the wooden floor to subtly creak.

“Mr. Pines, I cleaned up the gift shop. I’m headed home now, I’ll see you tomorrow!” Soos gushed helpfully. He was a pink color, reminiscent of Stan’s own original palette, filling the older man with nostalgia.

Blinking, Stan glanced over at the preteen and cracked his signature Mr. Mystery smile.

“Thanks, kid. Say, do ya need a ride home?” Stan offered kindly, out of character for him. He shifted his feet on the ground, sheepish, as he rushed to make up an excuse for his offer. “Uh-I was definitely plannin’ on goin’ out that way, anyway. Deeeeefinitelyyyy.”

Soos looked positively starstruck for a few seconds before excitedly accepting his hero’s offer, glad to spend even one extra second with his idol. The pair made their way out of the Shack after Soos grabbed his toolbox (courtesy of Stan on the day Soos was hired) and into the worn interior of the Stanmobile before driving onto the dirt road leading into Gravity Falls.

* * *

“Kid, how’s your abuelita been? She been keepin’ ya fed and watered?” Stan inquired conversationally after a few minutes of relative silence in the car, slight concern clouding his words. No matter how impenetrable his heart seemed to be, the young handyman had somehow wormed his way into it.

“Yes sir, Mr. Pines! She banned me from eating crackers in my bed yesterday, but that’s okay! I understand that cracker-eating in bed is a responsibility I must work extra hard for.” Soos’s exterior darkened a bit in determination, but his warm colors still shined through. Stan shook his head in amusement, smirking. He kept his eyes on the road, and realized that they had arrived on Soos’s street in what felt like three seconds.

“I’m not even gonna ask what led up to that, kid. Hey, there’s your house now. Scram, kid, and I’ll see you tomorrow at the Shack,” Stan dismissed the preteen, who gave him a salute and skittered off to his house where his abuelita, a woman with a welcoming lavender as her color, was staring at Stan through the window. A threatening look was in her beady eyes, and Stan hightailed it out of there, eager to get away from her creepy scrutiny.

Instead of turning on the road to go back to the Shack like he would have any other day, he instead headed in the direction of town. Tomorrow was his and Ford’s birthday, so he liked to at least commemorate his brother with a toast and a birthday cupcake and candles (one for him, one for Stan). He had been doing so for the past two or so decades, and he had noticed the past few times that the grocery store’s bakery always stocked red velvet cupcakes, his favorite, around this time of the year. Coincidence or not, he bitterly reminded himself that the red cake was similar to the _blood_ Ford had likely lost on the other side of the portal because of him.

_Why so bitter, Stanley? Cut the crap. Just take the box, grab the candles, and work on the portal more before bed. Make up for it._

He was getting closer and closer to getting his brother back every day, no matter how slow progress felt in the grand scheme of things.

Stan pulled into the parking lot, noting how empty the store was in comparison to usual (probably due to the time of day, but it was early enough that it was still open). He walked directly into the store and toward the bakery, spotting the box of cupcakes in question. Stan then grabbed some blue and red candles, feeling they fit the occasion.

_Steal or buy? Steal or buy?_

_...Ugh, I wish it could be steal today, but Ford would want me to buy our cake.._

_..Legally._

Huffing, Stan brought his cupcakes and candles to the checkout lane. The cashier cocked her eyebrow at him, but he brushed off the questioning look as he gently laid the containers down on the track.

“You gonna have a party, old man? There’s a lot of cupcakes here for just one old chap,” the woman commented. Her appearance was a somewhat friendly yellow.

Stan winced slightly. He really had no valid explanation, so he grunted, uninterested in pointless conversation.

_Can’t have a party when the only guest is in who-knows-where in another galaxy, after all. Oh, and the fact that he probably hates your guts makes it even more difficult, but who can blame him?_

Sensing his disdain for the topic, she didn’t press him further. “That’ll be $6.18, old man.”

Stan forked over the cash and eagerly left the store, walked to his car, and drove away to the Shack, speeding as per usual, as if everything was alright.

* * *

_Happy birthday, Sixer._

It was the night of his 52nd birthday, and he felt the decades weighing down on him like a sack of potatoes. He stared at himself in the mirror, sucking in his stomach to look more like the lankier of the two twins.

_All those decades are time I could have been spending working faster, working harder… fuck, will I ever succeed? If there’s a god out there, please let me get my brother back._

He witnessed his appearance gradually dim into the grief-ridden blue it would be on a daily basis if he hadn’t taught himself to _not think about it_. Stan wiped the tears forming in his eyes before walking to the kitchen to grab a cupcake, two candles (red and blue), and his special cigar lighter (for when life… gets too.. hard). He stuck the candles into the iced cupcake, lit the wicks, and carefully traversed back over to the mirror. Stan plopped down on the floor.

 _Moses, I’m gonna regret this later. I already feel my knees cryin’_.

With a sigh, he blew out the candles before the wax melted too far, removed them, and proceeded to eat the cupcake, alone.

_Not alone for long. I’ll get you back soon, Sixer. I promise._

He finished the cake after a few bites. Groaning, he counted to three, stood up, and ambled over to the vending machine to work on the problem of his own (partial) creation, casting his bitter feelings out of his mind.

_I’ll give the rest of those to Soos, he’ll like ‘em. Happy birthday, Sixer. Hope 52 treats you well._

Stan carded his fingers through his hair and retreated into the dark basement, ready to work for what he knew would feel like an eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm sorry the chapter is so short in comparison to the others. The last two chapters after this one will likely be very long! (I have to finish the next chapter, so if it's a day late, it's to ensure it's of high quality, but I think it'll be on time.) Thanks for sticking around, and feel free to share your thoughts! :)


	6. Ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kids finally arrive in Gravity Falls! While their summer is mostly fun and games, they have some blips along the way, as documented below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter (skipping ahead marked by *-*-*-*-*):  
> 1\. How Far We've Come by Matchbox Twenty  
> 2\. In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning by Frank Sinatra  
> 3\. If I Could Turn Back Time by Cher  
> 4\. Welcome to My Life by Simple Plan  
> 5\. I'm Movin' On by Rascal Flatts
> 
> If any of the songs end, just wait until the next sign to play the next one. Sorry about the weird selection this time around, if you have any better suggestions please do share, heh!

_He was tied up at the wrists and ankles, and he was in an uncomfortable position on his arm in the back of a car. The bumpiness of the road agitated his shoulder wound, and his neck strained as he tried to see something, anything in the dark space that was the trunk. At last, he let his head thump on the carpeted bottom of the trunk, and he huffed in shallow breaths, trying to breathe the stuffy air, eventhoughthewallswereclosingin-_

Stan awoke with a start. He registered that he was still in the basement, safe..

_Safe. Not in hell, Stan._

He still broke out in a cold sweat, however, which was definitely against his will.

_Sweet Moses, it feels even more real every time I see it again…_

Stan breathed out through his nose as he rubbed his crimson hands on his face, wiping the sleep from his tired eyes. He glanced over at the alarm clock he kept on the desk: It was 6:18 AM.

_6:18? Ugh. I could have slept an extra twelve minutes! Screw being old._

With much effort, Stan dug himself out of his swivel chair and balanced himself on the filthy basement floor. His bones creaked in warning of “hey, that’s too much movement!”

Stan stretched mightily, groaning with exertion, before strolling over and into the elevator and pressing the button to go up to the ground floor of the Shack, where a full day’s work awaited him.

* * *

*-*-*-*-*

It was now 2:00 PM, and Stan felt the familiar feeling of fatigue catching him in its strong grip, as reflected by the darker exterior he had taken on. He was now eating lunch in the kitchen of the Shack in between tours, as he had not eaten dinner the night before, let alone breakfast in the morning (he had been hard at work making a new exhibit, a Phan-dumb, which was a ghost with a dunce cap), when he caught sight of the calendar he kept on the wall.

_May 31st. What’s important about May 31st…?_

Stan tried to remember why while he scarfed down the rest of his peanut butter sandwich, and when he was throwing away the paper towel he used for a place-mat, he flashed cyan in realization.

“Shit, the twins are coming today!”

He had no idea how he had forgotten that _little, itsy-bitsy_ detail. Contrary to his usual reaction to situations, he had been anticipating their disgust and hatred due to his coloring. Today Stan was even uglier than normal; instead of looking like a rainbow of colors, he looked like a toddler had dragged mud in his palette, making him look _worn_ and _terrible_. While he didn’t particularly care about what the townspeople thought, he knew he had to be unique to keep tourists flowing in.

_Gotta pay the electricity bills somehow._

Stan decided that if he was going to make an impression, the Shack itself should at least have _some_ semblance of cleanliness. Looking around, he could see dust, dirt, and odd paint stains on the table and the counter-top, and there was a forest of Pitt Cola on most surfaces in the kitchen and living room. All in all it was more of an annoyance than anything, as he had to finish by around five, when the twins would be arriving.

_Welp, looks like I should get to work. Trash-collecting powers, activate!_

* * *

In what felt like a clutch victory, Stan had finished tidying up the Shack in the nick of time. He had about five minutes to collect his thoughts and plan his explanation of why he is decidedly _not_ insane, depressed, or generally unwilling to live, but he was slightly struggling with calming down. Stan paced on the creaky, wooden floor of the gift shop while he carded his fingers through his hair, fez forgotten on the counter near where Wendy could be found reading a magazine. Though he knew asking a teenager for advice was probably not “hip” and “cool,” he swallowed his apprehension and went on with his question.

“Uh… Wendy? I’ve gotta ask you a question,” Stan stated, hesitant. Wendy peered at him over her magazine, her palette transitioning from a bored cement gray to a more intrigued blue. His own colors reflected his anxiety, so she knew he wasn’t yanking her chain like usual, so she took pity on him.

“Shoot, old man. I’m all ears for curing your most-likely-irrational fears!”

He snorted, rolling his eyes, before continuing with, “Well, the twins are coming up from Piedmont today in probably the next five minutes, and I want to make a good impression without. well... scaring them away or coming off as… cooky? How do ya think I should go about impressing two twelve year olds I’ve only met once?”

Wendy flashed red with surprise before shifting positions, leaning on her hands in deep thought in a way that _almost_ reminded him of his _own_ twin.

_Don’t think about him now. Don’t want anyone asking any questions that are… too close for comfort._

The teen had finished contemplating, and cracked her signature “cool” grin.

“Well, for starters, since they’re twelve, no swearing. I know that’s a pretty major part of your old man persona, but refraining will make you seem less old and grumpy. Also, you should _really_ let loose and allow different colors to show through other than your ensemble you’ve got right now, so you seem less boring. Other than that, just be the Stan we all know and.. tolerate?... and you’ll do fine.”

Stan gave a mirthless laugh as he processed the advice, because he knew he’d have to start sneaking around more _in addition_ to making his language mostly PG. His thoughts were interrupted by a quiet, seemingly hesitant knock on the door, followed by an exclamation of, “No, Dipper! Do it with more pizzazz and _gusto_ , like this!” that was the prerequisite of a sudden barrage of banging on the old wooden door. Stan’s palette at first went a bruised purple from fear, before he manipulated his colors back to seeming excited and casual, to come off as, well, put-together. Wendy raised a confused eyebrow at how he had changed his colors so quickly (she didn’t know of his talent for manipulation), but shrugged as she returned to ignoring the world in favor of divulging in her reading.

Stan took a deep, calming breath, fixed his hair to look slightly less mussed up from his frantic petting from before, and crossed the gift shop floor over to the door. With one last inhale, he opened the door, and was greeted with the sight of the twins, both loaded with luggage and looking worn out.

He took in their appearances. Mabel was wearing a sweater with one of those.. Blobby yellow guys on those cell phones?... that had a cowboy hat on. Her shirt was captioned with, “Howdy Partner!”, and he inwardly chuckled at the silliness of it. He also analyzed her palette: she was pink, almost like how he was in childhood, but with a more friendly vibe about her. She wore a bright, brace-filled smile on her face.

On the other hand, Dipper went for a more summer-appropriate outfit; a red shirt with a blue vest, and cargo shorts convenient for carrying little knick-knacks. For a preteen, his hair was long and curly, and it was draped over his forehead sloppily, held down by a khaki green hat. However, it wasn’t the boy’s clothes that floored Stan: It was Dipper’s likeness to _Ford_ that made Stan falter slightly. The preteen had the same intelligent, shy look on his face his brother wore without fail, and they shared the same blue palette of childish curiosity that he only faintly remembered. Stan almost rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating, but he realized he had been staring for about thirty seconds.

“Uh, shi- I mean, shucks! Hey, kiddos! How was the drive up??” Stan asked, a forced grin on his face. His control over his emotions slipped, and he morphed into a fearful purple, anxious to impress.

“It was great, Great Uncle Stanford! We saw _soooo_ many animals on the drive up! One of our favorite games to play is the “Killed Your Cows!” game where we count cows and if we see a graveyard-” Mabel rambled, almost jumping up and down with glee. Her long hair swished like a curtain in the breeze. She probably would have continued on with her tangent, but her brother, stained a bit red with embarrassment, flipped her hair over her head to cover her face in seemingly practiced ease. He spoke up for the first time.

“..Mabel, you’re rambling again. We can talk about ‘Killed Your Cows!’ when we’re all settled in, yeah?” Dipper suggested, a small smile on his face. Stan wanted to thank the kid, but he refrained in an attempt to prevent insulting Mabel.

“Very true! How’d you get so smart, Dip-Dop? Share some of them ~brains~ with your favorite sister!”

“...You’re my only sister, silly!”

“Exactly! That means you can spare more brains for me. I’m expecting your donation by check in three days!”

Dipper laughed, a joyful yellow spreading across his cheeks. Stan was extremely confused by the quick exchange that had just occurred, but he didn’t comment as he opened the door further, turned on his heel, and beckoned the pair to follow him into the Shack. While he could hear Mabel giving a _squee_ of excitement, he also picked up on Dipper’s more hesitant, calculated steps.

_...He’s more and more like Ford every second… and Mabel’s practically a carbon copy of me when I was young. Weird._

Stan led the twins into the gift shop, and their summer-long stay began, a promise of fun, adventure, and exploration hanging in the air.

* * *

A few weeks into the summer, Stan had been working harder than ever on the portal. His sleep schedule was _wack_ , as Mabel would say, but he _knew_ he would sleep easy soon.

Stan was beyond tired that night, though. His eye-bags had their _own_ eye-bags, but it was all worth it: He was getting close to recovering his brother from the portal, fulfilling his _purpose_ and fixing his _mistake_. So when the alarm clock by his- his _brother’s_ desk interrupted his thought process, he slammed it off, trying to remember what his trail of thought was.

Tiredness took over, however, and he lost the line of thinking, much to his chagrin. He rubbed his eyes in an attempt to wake himself up, taking note of how his colors were literal _sludge_. The niblings being around had helped his colors return to a considerably more _normal_ palette, but he knew it would be a loooooong day of color manipulation and acting if he was gonna hide his secret from the twins and his employees.

_I can’t keep losin’ sleep like this. I’ve gotta stay sharp, and I feel like a fucking sphere._

With a final, large yawn, Stan creaked as he stood up out of his swivel chair, stretched, and dragged his feet along the filthy basement floor, his eyes trying _so hard_ to submit to sleep as he entered the elevator and rose to what would probably be an awful day.

* * *

As he predicted, his day was quite difficult to get through. In the morning, he had called Wendy before she came into work and left a voicemail _begging_ the teen to run to their local Spacebucks to buy him whatever drink had the most caffeine in it. She had pulled through with an extremely large blonde roast, and he chugged it, slipping her a twenty in the process.

After about a half an hour, Stan felt more awake than he had ever felt before. He usually enjoyed drinking a regular, black cup of coffee, but _this_ was an _experience_.

_Maybe Ford was onto something here._

The niblings both woke up around noon due to a late-night monster hunt the night before (he acted like he didn’t know about it, for their safety), so they didn’t see the slum he had been in during the morning hours of operation. It was when he was coming down from his caffeine-induced “high” that they faced the most irritable Grunkle Stan they had ever witnessed at the wooden kitchen table.

Mabel had been rambling _on_. And. On. about her most recent boy crush, and Stan was tired of hearing about.. Mermiendo? Marmalade? Morpius? and snapped, contrary to his normal character.

“Pumpkin, can we _please_ move _on_ from the stupid boy crush?! I think I’m speaking for everyone here that literally no one cares, and we don’t… don’t…”

*-*-*-*-*

Stan watched as Mabel’s face fell, her colors shifting to a bruised blue. He clapped a hand to his mouth and tried reaching out to her with the other as she sniffled, tears forming in her eyes. Dipper quickly morphed into a defensive, angry crimson, fury dripping from his voice.

“Stan, apologize to Mabel! That was completely uncalled for, and that wasn’t cool, man! Unlike you, I care about what my sister has to say, and.. And..!-” Dipper yelled, brow furrowed. Stan, feeling slightly attacked by the kid, rolled his eyes with a scoff. He did feel bad, but Dipper's weak attempt at defending his sister was more annoying than anything.

“Oo, look who decided to try and be all manly on me!” Stan mocked, wiggling his fingers. “Emphasis on tried! You’ve got _nothin’ on me_ , squirt, and ya never will.”

Stan had no idea why he was saying these hurtful things. He didn’t really mean them, but he watched as Dipper turned a navy blue, almost black. The preteen pulled the brim of his hat down over his head, grabbed his sister’s hand, and dragged her out of the kitchen and out the door of the gift shop, where Wendy looked concerned.

_Shit, shit shit fuck-! I.. I didn’t-!_

Wendy walked away from the counter, and peeked her head into the doorway of the kitchen, face dark with judgement.

“Dude, that wasn’t you. I don’t know what your problem is today, but I’m not gonna let you bash my friends. Go do whatever you need to do to recover, but until they forgive you, you need to get. Your. Crap. Together. You hear me?”

Stan only nodded through the hands he covered his face with, face turning red with embarrassment, shame, and anger; not toward anyone but himself, of course. He knew exactly what the solution was, but he _really_ didn’t want to lose profits from closing up shop.

At that moment, his loyal handyman Soos walked into the kitchen, singing a song under his breath about _fixing the pipes, doo-doo-doo_. Stan got an idea, and while he felt bad, he knew it was the best solution. He made sure to drop his facade of his controlled colors (aside from the red), and the sludge from the morning came to light. With one glance in his direction, Soos was by his side in an instant, checking him over.

“Oh my gosh, Mr. Pines! Are you okay?? Do you feel sick?? Have you eaten anything in the past 24 hours, dood?” Soos asked, a yellow concern reminding Stan of a mother hen on the handyman’s features.

While Stan hadn’t eaten in 24 hours, he hardly felt hungry, let alone sick, but he had to put on a show in order to pull this plan off.

“Ugh, yeah, I had some expired crackers yesterday that must not be sitting well with me.. I’m gonna have to close the Shack for the day, Soos…” Stan made sure to appear utterly stricken, which was slightly accurate, but his attempt was dim in comparison to Soos’s emotion.

“No way! In all my years here as your trusty employee, you haven’t _closed the Shack_ for anything! I-What’s going to happen?!” Soos wailed, a frightful blue. Stan felt even more guilty, and his colors shifted to express this, helping him with the next part of his plan.

“Yeah.. I know, Soos, and I’m- wait, I just thought of something- no, that’s too much to ask. Take the rest of the day off, Soos- you’ve earned it..”

Soos looked baffled, but intrigued.

“No, tell me! What was your plan? I’m willing to do _anything_ , Mr. Pines!”

Stan cringed before making his proposal.

“..you asked for it. Uh, how would you feel about bein’ Mr. Mystery for the rest of the day today while I go lay down and try to get better?”

Soos didn’t react at first, but slowly, his colors became an almost blinding yellow, showing his happiness. Stars practically filled his eyes, and he clapped his hands together, excitement coming off of him in waves. Stan almost, _almost_ felt better about his crime.

“I-It’ll be an honor to fulfill your role, Mr. Pines! I, your loyal handyman, will do my best to earn the Shack money, sharing dreams with children and tourists alike!” Soos promised. He punctuated this with a salute, staring off at a distant.. flag, maybe?

“..Thanks, Soos. Here, let me go change out of my suit, and you can…” He was interrupted by his own yawn before he continued. “...can do the rest of the tours.”

Soos gave him a solemn nod and Stan scaled the staircase before going to his room. When he arrived in his private space, he slumped down onto his bed, _so desperate_ to just pass out then and there, but he forced himself to strip down to his boxers and wife-beater. Stan then threw the Mr. Mystery get-up down the stairs in a ball (he silently apologized to Soos yet again), hurried back over to his comfy mattress, and flung himself into his messy bed, wrapping his blankets around himself in a warm cocoon in hopes of hiding from the real world, even for an hour. His last thought before falling asleep was about how much of an _ass_ he was to those poor kids.

_Guess I’ll.. have to.. Make it up to th.. them..._

* * *

He didn’t know why, but he had been graced with a dreamless sleep. Considering the lighting of the room and how rejuvenated he felt, Stan knew it had been at least five hours since he had nestled into his pillow and become dead to the world. With a sigh, he flopped out of his warm bed, stretched his joints in hope of _some_ comfort, and walked out of his bedroom door and down the stairs. Stan was greeted with the sight of the niblings eating some microwave pizza, both pointedly ignoring him. They were both the exact same color: dark blue, reflecting their disappointment.

He knew the only way to seek their forgiveness was to initiate the conversation and state why he was wrong, and he knew that would be easy enough. Stan just had a bit of a _problem_ handling emotions, and he knew it could _very_ easily screw him over in the moment.

Stan took a deep breath, allowed his true colors to shine through (depressing, dark blue and a passionate red borne out of his love) before clearing his throat.

“...uh, I.. I wanted to apologize for my actions earlier. I spouted hurtful things, and I didn’t mean what I was sayin’. You kids are the most important part of my life, and I couldn’t bear losin’ you because of my own.. My own stupidity.” Stan started, swallowing. A ball of fear and emotion was trying to spill out, but he had to have at least _some_ semblance of privacy. The twins glanced at him, signaling that he could continue.

“More importantly… I should apologize to both of you individually. Pumpkin, I feel like the biggest jerk in the world seein’ you have your feelings hurt by me, and I would go back in _time_ if I could in order to punch myself in the face and say, ‘Appreciate everything she says, ya old man!’. There’s no excuse for how I snapped at ya, and I hope you can find it in you to forgive your old man.”

Mabel’s eyes had become filled with tears, and she nodded slightly, showing she forgave him. Stan knew she was still stung, but she at least didn’t hate him.

Stan felt like Dipper was a different story.

“Dipper, you probably.. you probably hate me, but I can’t really blame you for that… I’ve been, excuse my French, an asshole to you. At first I.. I meant well, tryin’ to toughen ya up for the real world, but it’s.. It’s devolved into being harmful more than anything.”

Dipper scoffed, rolling his eyes. His palette was a bitter plum that put on clear display his skepticism and anger.

“An asshole doesn’t cut it, Stan. You _degrade_ me _constantly_. I feel like I can hardly be myself around you because all you care about is your stupid money and making fun of me! How do you think _I_ feel when you insult me, insult my _personality_? I can’t change how I am, yet you don’t appreciate my personality in the slightest! Explain how you _possibly_ think you were ‘toughening me up!’”

Stan could tell that had been building for a long time, and it stung to think that he had been the cause of all that _hurt_ in his nephew. His face fell, now a sickly green with guilt, and he averted his eyes from the pair.

“...I don’t know. Honestly, Dipper, I have no idea. I think the answer is that I wasn’t thinkin’, and I ended up projectin’ my own issues onto you. I know that’s a _very_ crappy thing to do, and I’ll try to refrain from any harmful language in my teasin’ in the future. I just.. I know there’s no excuse, and I’m not even gonna bother justifyin’ myself, but I hope you know that I care about _both_ of you, even if.. if you don’t feel the same anymore..”

At the end of his speech, he felt tiny arms wrap around his midsection. Stan hadn’t noticed Mabel had stood up and walked over to his position on the floor, as he was invested in his apology, so he was slightly surprised she had hugged him. She was a sweet peachy color with forgiveness, and it made him feel at least slightly less worthless as a grunkle. Dipper, while still sore from the whole situation, at least looked receptive to his apology, though he didn’t express this. Instead, he nodded slightly and stood up from his chair, leaving the table. Mabel followed behind him after she finished her hug.

After they left, Stan covered his face with his hands. He felt guilt gnawing on his insides over the whole situation. All he could hear was the voices in his head criticizing him.

_Nice going, Stan. Look how badly you hurt them!_

You’re an awful person.

They hate you.

You’re worthless without them!

Absolutely worthless!

Stan felt frustrated tears forming in his eyes. He took a deep, calming breath before he wiped his eyes and retreated into the gift shop, hoping to distract himself from his own demons through restocking the shelves of the store.

* * *

While most people definitely considered Dipper to be the “smart” twin, Mabel was the twin who was more in tune with emotions. Sad over a crush gone bad? Boom, hot chocolate and cookies, and you’re good as new! So while Mabel noticed something.. _off_... about their Grunkle Stan, she knew Dipper was too absorbed in his hunt for the author of the journal and mystery hunting in general to notice anything amiss.

More specifically, Mabel had noticed that Stan had become more withdrawn from the kids. While this wasn’t an _issue_ , per say, she did miss being able to hang out with her uncle without a feeling of walking on eggshells. It was, after all, the end of July, and they had been bonding for almost two months by that point. She _had_ to figure out what was bothering her grunkle, even if it killed her!

_Well, kill is strong. Even if it causes me slight bodily harm!_

This led to Mabel commencing “Operation: Help Out Stan!”, which involved her dropping ~subtle~ hints that probed for signs and pointers regarding his health and feelings. She ended up deducing that Stan was, well, hiding something. Something big.

_Maybe it’s a puppy! I’ve always wanted a puppy, no matter what Dipper thinks! Puppies for the win!_

She noticed something else, too; while he tended to have dreary colors when he thought he was alone, he was his normal, _mysterious_ palette when around the kids, Soos and Wendy, or any tourists.

_How does he change his colors like that? Emotions don’t change so drastically in such a short amount of time!_

Though she wanted to ask him about it, she didn’t want to make him sad or angry, so she vowed to herself to wait on asking until the last week of summer, when she thought their bond would be strong enough for such emotional territory.

* * *

*-*-*-*-*

_Today is the day._

_Ford’s finally coming home._

After thirty years of hard work, he had _finally_ finished working on the damned portal. The black-lit parts of the blueprint had cleared up _everything_ he was missing (not including the warnings to never ever activate the portal, but he pointedly ignored that part), and he was becoming increasingly euphoric as each second ticked away toward the final part of his journey, as shown by his helpful watch he had hooked up to the portal’s timer.

Stan still had around eight hours before he had to be there for his brother’s arrival, so he decided to take the day off and _relax_ for the first time in what felt like centuries. He felt an invisible weight lift off his shoulders as he flipped the Shack’s sign to CLOSED, not caring about the angry patrons he would likely have that day.

_Fuck ‘em. They can come back tomorrow and see Mr. Mystery and Mr. Mystery in a new exhibit, “Seeing Double!”_

His colors were noticeably bright that day. Though he wore his signature white wife-beater and striped blue boxers, he was back to his classic palette only he had ever seen: red hair, pink skin, and bright eyes. As soon as his great niece had caught sight of him while he was cooking Stancakes in the morning, she let out an excited squeal at a frequency his hearing aids decidedly did _not_ appreciate.

“..Mabel! Please, you’re deafenin’ me! Spare your old man’s ears today, won’t ya? Not to mention your brother’s still tryin’ to sleep!” Stan begged, a jokester’s grin on his face. He knew he wasn’t acting normal in the slightest, but he hardly cared. Mabel grinned right back at him.

“Aww, _Grunkle Stan_! You look so.. so happy! You know, it’s a great look on you.” Mabel complimented with a wink. Stan put an abashed hand on his neck, cheeks darkening from his now flustered emotions. He floundered, trying to escape any further embarrassment, and he got his out of the situation in the appearance of the other twin in the kitchen.

“Uh.. Grunkle Stan? The Stancakes are burning. I could smell them from upstairs!” Dipper informed his grunkle with a smile, positively influenced by the man’s brighter colors. The preteen’s palette caught Stan off guard.

_He looks just like Ford right after finally completin’ a difficult problem or riddle._

Stan blinked before quickly turning back toward the stove, where it was busy charring his Stancakes. With a silent swear (he had _some_ shame around the kids), he turned off the stove and let the pan cool down.

_Definitely not edible.. What a waste._

He didn’t let it get him down, though. Who cared about something as trivial as pancakes when your _long-lost brother_ was coming home the same day? Definitely not him.

“Looks like we’re havin’ cereal today!”

The kids laughed, started a chant of “Ce-re-al! Ce-re-al! Ce-re-al!”, and poured their bowls, blissfully unaware of the situation ahead of them. Stan knew that was probably a bad thing, but…

_How do I explain something like this to them?_

_Oh yeah, sorry kids! I’ve been lyin’ to you the whole summer! I’m actually your great uncle Stanley, and I’m a big screw-up who pushed his brother into a portal-_

“-le Stan! Grunkle Stan, what’s wrong?”

Both the twins were scrutinizing him: Mabel had concern written all over her face, while Dipper looked.. skeptical, almost. Stan brought his hand up to his face; he felt tear tracks that had formed much to his chagrin, and his colors were significantly dimmer. He knew he had to explain, to _justify_ his actions, so he cleared his throat.

“Um.. well, I have something I need to tell you two. Just.. just know that everything I’ve done is for this fam-”

His heart-to-heart was interrupted by the gift shop’s door being kicked down, and heavy, booted footsteps pounding on the wooden floor. Stan knew _exactly_ what it was as soon as they knocked down the door.

_Fuck, it’s the feds!_

Stan felt a pit form in his stomach, and he pushed himself between the door and the kids, spreading out his arms in a protective stance.

_No matter what happens to me, nobody touches these kids._

_Sorry, Sixer._

* * *

“Stanford Pines. Here we all were, thinking you’re a local kook running a tourist trap for any sucker who dared walk in. Who would have thought that you were capable of building a _doomsday_ device, let alone put on a convincing show to hide it for _who-knows-how-long_? Anything to say for yourself, Pines?” an agent interrogated, obviously eager to throw him in jail. Stan remembered his name was Agent Powers, after rooting around in his brain for a few seconds.

_Huh. Wonder how I can push his buttons…_

He made a show of squirming in his creaky, uncomfortable chair and yanking on his handcuffs. Stan felt some faint deja-vu, but he brushed it off.

“Well, gee, Agent _Flowers_! I think every man has a right to a phone call, correct me if I’m wrong? I sure would _love_ to take mine, if that’s not an issue for you, Princess.”

Powers flushed a deep, annoyed red, contrary to his previous blank slate of a disposition. The agent gave a grunt in affirmation of his right to the call, stood up, and proceeded to drag Stan over to the phone on the wall, standing right in his personal bubble.

“Uh, a little privacy, yeah?” Stan requested with a shiver of disgust. Powers rolled his eyes, but gave him a time limit of two minutes before stepping outside the room.

_Miraculously, you’ve gotten this far, Stan. Who’s most likely to pick up…?_

_Wendy? No, she’s always on silent.. Mabel?_

_She’s in custody, fuckwit!_

_...Soos?_

He tried thinking of any other alternative, but he didn’t want to waste any more time.

_Fuck it. Let’s get this show on the road._

He dialed up his handyman’s number (he had memorized it for a situation exactly like this), and listened to the tinny ringing of the phone in his ear. After about ten Mississippis in his head, Soos picked up the phone. Stan breathed a sigh of relief before gathering his thoughts for the most straight-forward conversation possible.

“ _Soos!_ Soos, can you hear me?”

There was hesitation on the other end of the line, followed by a faint rustling of the phone speaker.

 _”Mr. Pines? Where are you? I didn’t know you knew how to use a phone! Our lessons must have actually worked, dood!”_ Soos cheered, inadvertently wasting around twenty precious seconds. Stan moved the conversation back into focus before any more time was lost between them.

“Soos, I have no time to explain! I need you to.. Find a way into the Shack without bein’ seen, like a ninja! Use your ninja skills to guard the vending machine _with your life!_ And in,” Stan checked his watch. One hour remained before his brother was coming home. “About 57 minutes, I need you to--”

The call cut off, interrupting his speech.

_Fuck! Ugh, looks like I have to escape..._

While Stan was being brought back to his holding cell, his watch gave three quick beeps. Agent Powers looked confused, but Stan’s colors shifted to a triumphant purple.

_Perfect! Gotta knock him out, take the keys, unlock my cuffs, then..._

He knew the plan was far fetched, but Stan had no other alternative. The pair began to rise from what was a particularly large gravitational anomaly.

_Gotta flip, gotta flip, gotta flip--_

Stan repositioned himself so that he could push off the wall with his dress-shoe-laden feet. He took a deep, steeling breath before kicking off said wall, flying in the direction of Agent Powers. The keys to his cuffs had floated out of the man’s loose suit jacket pocket, so Stan grabbed them from in air at an awkward angle before proceeding to unlock his cuffs.

He knew what he had to do next, and he cringed from what he knew would hurt like a bitch.

_Gotta sock him in the face._

Once the anomaly ended, they abruptly fell to the linoleum-tile floor. Stan quickly recovered by getting back up and pinning Agent Powers up against the wall with his right fist. Though the agent squirmed, he was still slightly dazed from the fall he had taken, so his struggling wasn’t enough to impact anything.

“Sorry, Flowers, but I gotta go see my brother. Lights out!” Stan explained before taking a deep breath, bracing himself for his broken fingers, and throwing the hardest left hook he would ever do at the poor man’s jaw.

_Crack!_

The sound of his fingers breaking in addition to the pop of his victim’s jaw synchronized. Stan let out a string of curses, red from the hot pain radiating from his injury. He unceremoniously dropped Powers (who was out cold) onto the ground like he was a sack of flour before he realized..

_Holy fuck, that actually worked!_

Chuckling, Stan glanced at his watch and felt his stomach drop. He had about ten minutes to get back to the Shack, which meant he’d be running, since he didn’t have time to hotwire a car.

_...Gotta get ‘em off my tail! How do I..?_

Stan had made it outside while thinking of a plan, and he caught sight of a taxi. He checked his wallet for cash: He had $100 on him. Huffing, he manipulated his colors to being a trustworthy yellow before knocking on the cab’s window. It rolled down, and a bored, dull gray driver sat in the driver’s seat.

“Howdy. You see these bills in my hand? They’re all yours if you drive as far away from Gravity Falls as you’re allowed to go. Sound like a plan?” Stan offered with a salesman’s smile. The taxi cab driver nodded dumbly before taking Stan’s cash and speeding off. Stan made sure to run and hide behind a dumpster in the parking lot, and he heard an order of “Pursue that cab!!”.

_In the clear. Run like you’re about to get fucking scalped by Rico!_

Stan took off in a dead sprint, fuelled by adrenaline, toward the Shack.

* * *

Stan had made it to the Shack, which was empty due to all forces pursuing his decoy taxi. He was looking forward to seeing his plan go off without a hitch: Soos protecting the vending machine, and the kids (hopefully) either escaped and in the living room or in the protective custody of federal agents. So when he entered the gift shop with about a minute to spare before the portal’s opening and saw the vending machine cracked open, his colors involuntarily shifted to a mellow blue in disbelief, followed by a dark red of determination.

_I’m not losing him! I have to get down there!_

Stan sprinted across the wooden floor of the gift shop, running into some gift racks and sending them flying as he whipped by them. He scaled the stairs down into the basement and, when he heard the words “Shut it down!” from his nephew, he felt the hope leave him.

_”DON’T SHUT DOWN THAT PORTAL!”_

Though he knew he looked insane with his tired panting from his nine-minute mile. Being old definitely did _not_ help him in this situation, but he thought he made it in a reasonable amount of time. He barely registered the time as _50\. Fucking. Seconds._ before he took in the sight of his family in front of the swirling blue of the portal. Mabel and Soos were both orange with concern and pink with confusion, while Dipper was a steely blue with authority.

“Tell us, Grunkle Stan, why should we leave this… this.. Doomsday device… running?!” Dipper yelled angrily, face flashing crimson for a second. Stan truly felt awful for not having given them an explanation, but he had no way to go back in time and fix it.

“Just.. please, don’t do it! This is my _life’s work_ , my only debt! I.. I have to get him back! Don’t do anything rash, Dipper, you’re gonna regret it!”

Stan knew he was being vague. He just had to stall for…

T-minus 30 seconds.

His watch gave off a series of beeps, and Stan knew exactly what was coming: The final anomaly. While it was dangerous, he knew it meant they would be away from the button. Stan would protect that button with his _body_ if it meant Ford would make it through the portal, so he ran forward as quick as his tired legs could carry him to get closer to the button.

“Brace yourselves!” Stan warned. He felt his weight lift up into the air: Mabel screamed, Dipper yelled, and Soos gave sounds of distress over the whole situation. Suddenly, however, the portal ejected a strong current of.. Wind? Energy?.. that sent Soos, Dipper, and him flying into the wall. Mabel was stuck due to her foot being looped in a stray cable.

Stan heard Dipper yell about turning off the button again, but he knew that he could get Mabel to understand his perspective. The countdown said 25 seconds, and while Mabel pulled herself closer to the button with the cable, Stan let his mouth run.

“MABEL! Mabel, listen to me! I know how bad this seems, but I promise, nothing bad will come out of that portal! You have to trust me, pumpkin!”

_T-minus 20 seconds remaining._

Mabel seemed ready to falter, as evidenced by her loving, pink palette, though it was hard to tell what color she was because of the harsh light from the portal.

“Grunkle Stan, I don’t.. I don’t even know who you are! Are we even related? Do you even CARE about us?!”

“Of course I care! I’m doing this for this family! Please, don’t press that-”

“DON’T LISTEN TO HIM, MABEL! USE YOUR HEAD, SAVE THE UNIVERSE! PRESS THE BUTTON!” Dipper interrupted, a bright, desperate red. Soos nodded in agreement, tears pouring from his eyes.

Mabel looked torn. She looked at her brother and then to Stan, teardrops floating above her head and into the vortex formed by the portal. At the final warning of _T-minus eight seconds remaining,_ Mabel shared her decision.

“...Grunkle Stan...

I trust you.”

Stan’s heart leapt at some finally, _finally_ placing trust in him. As the last seconds trickled away, he heard Dipper’s desperate cry of how they were all going to die, before--

Before the world went white.

* * *

The room suddenly shifted back into view, wreckage littering the filthy concrete floor of the lab. Stan could hardly imagine just how _ruined_ so many things would be in his life, but he brushed it off in favor of watching the figure in black come through the portal.

_Ford._

_You’re finally home._

Once his brother entered the basement, the portal sputtered and fazed out, therefore eliminating the strong gravity in the operation site. He fell face-first into the ground.

_Ow, FUCK!_

Stan thought he felt his nose crunch from the force of falling, but even as the smell and taste of iron filled his nose and mouth, he abruptly stood back up to greet his brother.

They all could only stare as the stranger picked up Journal #1 from the wreckage, his _six-fingered hand_ grasping the cover.

Dipper was the first to ask for answers, a confusing mess of conflicting colors and emotions.

“..Who… who _is_ that?”

“..The author of the journals,” Stan said. “My brother.”

Ford pulled off the scarf and goggles covering his face, and Stan was struck with confusion at how he was that same distinct _yellow_ from thirty years ago.

_How the fuck has he not changed?_

Stan went in for a hug, a greeting, _anything_ , but he was “greeted” with a sock to the jaw, which flung spittle from his mouth all over the place.

“OW! What.. what was that for…?!” Stan yelled, before it hit him.

_..._

_He hates me._

*-*-*-*-*

Tears abruptly sprung to his eyes as a flurry of emotions hit him: he flashed red with anger, blue with sadness, gray with hatred (directed toward himself, of course), and finally ended up on a dark onyx that scared everyone in the room. They had no idea that onyx was practically his _default color_ when it came to Ford, but he knew Ford was used to it.

Stan fell to his knees, and he let the tears pour from his eyes. Ford looked almost _confused_ as Stan began to blubber out apologies toward his family and, reluctantly, his own twin.

“..I… I’m _sorry_! I’m sorry! I’m so… so… so worthless! I…--”

He covered his mouth with his hand and shrunk in on himself, ashamed of his helplessness. He felt three pairs of arms wrap around him in comfort, and he knew exactly who they all belonged to.

_..._

_They’re the only family I’ve got left..._

Stan’s head fell as he accepted his new reality, and he halted his torrent of shameful tears.

_No showing weakness. Treat him like you would any other random civilian._

_He’s hardly your brother anymore._

He shifted to a steely gray of lack of emotion as he cast his resigned gaze over to his brother, and Stan decided that he was only here for these _kids_ and _Soos_ , and no one else.

_He doesn’t want to associate with me? No problem. Fuck him._

Stan proceeded to wrap his arms around his remaining family, awaiting his new reality with harsh acceptance and bated breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! I made sure to make the chapter extra long to make up for it. I'm releasing the final part at midnight, and I hope you enjoy until then!
> 
> Also, I'm going to assemble a Spotify playlist that puts these songs in order for easier consumption (until I get some MP3s up in here or somethin', haha!). I'll put the link in the first chapter so you can do it from here on out (sorry I didn't think of it earlier! ^^;)
> 
> Feel free to share your thoughts! :)


	7. Blank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weirdmageddon and the aftermath! While Stan still has some apprehension toward his brother, he's mostly numb to the whole portal incident. Emphasis on mostly. :)
> 
> CW for a panic attack near the end of the chapter, start and end marked with ^^^^^^, and some dubious Bill antics with Ford! (not particularly bad, but it would be justifiable to get a vibe of something going on... behind the scenes, if you will)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter of songs! I don't know if anyone's listened to them or not, but hey, no problem either way! :) Skipping ahead is marked by "*-*-*-*-*". Also, the playlist for the songs will be included in the first chapter from now on. Sorry about being so late with it!
> 
> 1\. This is the End by Red Wanting Blue (start from 1:42, or just play from the beginning, no problem either way lol)  
> 2\. The Fortunate by Cartel  
> 3\. Lonely Day by System Of A Down  
> 4\. Wake Me up When September Ends by Green Day  
> 5\. Come Sail Away by Styx

Stan was not having a great week.

_This week has been a literal shit-storm. What the fuck is even happening outside?_

All around him, the forest had somehow become even more strange than before, and that was saying something. Gompers, the resident goat, had turned into a Godzilla-sized goat, which he thought was a great reason to run and hide indoors. He did not, however, sign up for the local kook McGucket and his posse of wild animals joining him in hiding.

_He stinks like he hasn’t showered in months! Brings me back to the streets…_

In an attempt to take control of the situation, Stan had elected himself as “chief” of the Shack: He did, after all, own the property, in the eyes of the town. Nothing bad had happened under his care, and weirdness of the outdoors seemed incapable of penetrating the Shack, so he had ordered the refugees to follow the most basic survival strategy around: Camp out until you run out of supplies. It was going as well as it could possibly go, and Stan was comfortable with their position.

Until the twins came.

Now, Stan loved the twins. He really did. They were his pride and joy, and they stuck with him even after the whole Ford debacle. He did not, however, appreciate being undermined and blatantly ignored by them, and therefore everyone with reasonable sentience

_Which is why my only friend right now is a fucking garden-gnome-looking thing. I almost feel bad for him._

The icing on the cake was the rescue mission for his idiot brother that he was forced to join. Stan found himself being dragged along on said mission in the chaos of the Shacktron’s fight, and while he had resigned to going, he had a feeling that _something_ was about to go wrong.

* * *

*-*-*-*-*  
Stan and the rescue group entered the Fearamid. They had no idea about the threat they were facing, yet they soldiered on, much to Stan’s dismay.

_All for my dumb brother. Imagine if I was the one being held hostage. They wouldn’t care, would they?_

Mabel, flushed with worry, used her grappling hook to go up to the top of the human throne. Even from the ground the group could see Ford, frozen in place with desperation written all over his face. Stan couldn’t help but feel anxious for his twin, no matter how he had wronged him in the past few weeks.

_Shit, is he okay?_

Stan started sweating bullets and wringing his (now orange) hands slightly while the group figured out how to unfreeze the citizens of Gravity Falls. After a short discussion with Gideon, they pulled the load-bearing human, Tyler Cutebiker, out of the throne, therefore collapsing the entire structure. Stan only had eyes for Ford, however, as his twin fell to the ground, unfreezing after a few extra seconds.

“Kids! I knew I could count on you!”

_Ouch._

Though Ford looked like he really was happy and loving, his color was still stuck as yellow. After all these years, Stan could finally place exactly what it was.

_Wait- I’ve seen that yellow before! That’s Bill!_

He had no idea how he had been so blind to the truth. Stan supposed it made sense, considering the influence the demon had on his idiot brother, but he didn’t realize just how high of a price Ford had been paying for his deal he had made.

_...His colors don’t change. How is he so happy, let alone functioning at all? I don’t think I’ve met another person who’s been fine with having one color for their adult life._

Shaking his head, Stan allowed a reconciliation between Ford and McGucket before requesting the group leave before Bill found out about their little mission. Yet again, he was ignored in favor of his _genius_ brother.

“Does anyone have a writing utensil of some sort? A pen, perhaps?” Ford questioned, looking around for any hits among the citizens. His brother spotted a can of spray paint on the ground near the emo teen Stan couldn’t care to remember the name of, picked it up, and began spraying a circle on the ground.

_Welp, he’s off his rocker. Maybe being gold for a few days finally killed his genius IQ._

Stan felt Dipper punch his arm in reprimand, the preteen red with criticism and annoyance at his jibe.

“Oh, did I say that out loud? We were all thinkin’ it.”

The silence was awkward as Ford continued drawing, and once he finished, Stan could’ve sworn he had heard a collective sigh of relief as it rushed through the crowd. He was glad he wasn’t the only one questioning his brother’s intent for once.

The rich brat Pacifica spoke up next by asking, “What is this, the world’s most confusing game of hopscotch?”

Ford proceeded to explain exactly what he had drawn; apparently, this was the solution to their whole Bill Cipher problem. While everyone followed his brother’s word like it was the gospel, Stan knew better than that. After all, he had learned that there was _nothing_ that was an all-encompassing fix-it. Each solution was only a Band-Aid for a plethora of other potential problems. Stan stepped back from the circle and watched from a distance as it began to glow from all the _hand-holding_ and the stupid symbols being “connected.” All that was missing in the human circuit was one person, and that was him.

_Why do I always appear to be the party pooper? Not true in the least!_

“Forgive me for bein’ a skeptic, folks, but I’m not buyin’ it. Who says this is gonna fix everything? You’re putting all of your faith in my brother, the one who originally _caused_ this entire mess. We’re all trusting _his_ word, when he’s made deals with the devil?!” Stan pointed out, much to the chagrin of the others in the circuit.

“Stan, we don’t have time for this!”

“Just trust Ford!”

“Don’t be an idiot, Stan! Just join the circle!”

_Idiot. Juuuust an idiot._

_…_

_We’ll see who was right when we’re all dead or imprisoned._

With a final, obnoxious sigh, Stan joined the circle and held hands with his brother and Soos. Ford, however, couldn’t resist getting the last word in.

“Glad you decided to join us, _knucklehead_.”

Stan inhaled deeply, exhaled, and steeled himself.

_Be the bigger man, Stan... Be the bigger man...._

Stan registered the group inhaling sharply, as if they knew Ford was traipsing on dangerous territory. If there was one thing he learned over the last few weeks, it was that his brother just _loved_ to provoke him through degrading him, and Stan definitely _hated_ being belittled. Ford’s next line, therefore, hit him hard.

“Took you long enough.”

Of course, Stan wailed on his brother.

“You son of a bitch! I worked _hard_ these past 30 years, gettin’ your sorry self back!”

“Stanley, not now! Everything’s on the line! Stop being so pigheaded, and maybe we’d get something done!” Ford yelled, oblivious to his own hand in causing the situation.

Stan and Ford continued wrestling for control over the situation, ignoring the pleas from his niece, nephew, and other members of the circle. Their fight, however, was interrupted by the demon of the hour himself.

“OH GOLLY, IT’S BILL!” the demon exclaimed dramatically, sarcasm dripping from his tone. “YOU’RE DEFINITELY ALL THINKING THAT, I CAN HEAR IT RADIATING OFF YOUR BRAIN WAVES. NOW, LET ME DEAL WITH THIS LITTLE MESS YOU _MEATBAGS_ CREATED FOR ME!”

*-*-*-*-*

Stan felt restraints coil around his body before he was levitated up into the air, giving him a bird’s-eye view of the people below him. His face turned a bit purple with the exertion of trying to wiggle out of the tight bonds, but was mostly a muddy green from guilt: He could see his brother also trying to free himself from his restraints, but without much success. The pair watched as the majority of the zodiac were raised into the air and, _somehow,_ transformed into _decorative banners_ of all things. Bill had left the twins on the ground, trapped in their own little pyramid.

“LAST CHANCE, FORDSY! GIVE ME THE EQUATION, OR THE KIDS GO BYE BYE!”

Both of the kids looked fearful, but they were matching in having a determined, hopeful blue as their general color. Stan could tell they had a wild card up their sleeves, but he didn’t want it to have to come to that, for their own sakes.

Frantic, Dipper called out, “NO! Don’t do it! We’re gonna be fine!” while Mabel exclaimed, “Bill makes bad deals!”, obviously in an attempt to bait the demon.

Surprisingly, this worked. Bill enlarged himself and threatened the duo, and Mabel sprayed his eyeball with the spray can from earlier, rendering it damaged. Dipper whipped out the size-crystal flashlight and made the wall larger just as Stan felt the wind get knocked out of his lungs from his decently long fall to the ground.  
can’tbreathecan’tBreATHE-

After a few precious seconds spent recovering his breath (and silently thanking all things holy for adrenaline), he tried to get up and run over to the kids to protect them from the demon. Of course, he was unsuccessful, and he was trapped with his brother in a cage of _hell_. The twins were off distracting a literal demon, and he could do _zilch_ about it!

Stan cupped his face in his trembling hands, his heart beating a mile a minute. He knew he had fucked up by not just ignoring his brother, and he expressed this to his brother. Though Ford looked slightly smug, he disagreed with his opinion.

“No, this is all my fault... _I_ originally made the deal that started all of this,” Ford lamented, gesturing toward his frozen colors. “...and now I must be the one to fix it. Once he comes back, I’m going to let him in my mind. Hopefully he’ll spare the kids, but if not, he might spare you.”

Suddenly, a light bulb went off in Stan’s head. His colors flashed yellow with hope, and Ford asked him what he had just thought of.

“What if he goes into my mind? I’m not worth much, it’ll be less drastic of a consequence.”

“No way, Stanley! This is my burden to bear! You’re not worthless, no matter what you think! I won’t let it happen.”

Sighing, Stan stared into his brother’s face, determination in his tone. “Ford, it’s this way or no way.”

Ford looked extremely conflicted, but from Stan’s steely expression, he knew his stubborn twin wouldn’t budge.

“...Fine. What’s the plan?”

_Great. Hooked him in. What IS the plan?_

Stan decided to follow his own, self-created guide on “How to Make Emergency Plans.”

“Okay, let me plan this out, Poindexter. I’m a pro at this. One, how can we get the most value out of both of us being here?” Stan pondered. Luckily, Ford had a quick answer.

“That’s an easy one. We’re identical. In the heat of the moment, no one can tell us- never mind. Our colors are completely different.” Ford looked remorseful at this, obviously angry with himself. Stan, however, had a solution. A risky one, but a solution all the same.

Stan proceeded to pat down his pockets to find said solution. He found it in his usual place for it: Inside his jacket pocket. Laughing in slight anxiety, he pulled out a bag of pills he kept on him for tight situations.

“ _Pills_ , Stanley?!” Ford questioned, eyes bulging. “How are these helpful in any way, shape, or form? Are those even _legal_?!”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Relax, nerd. What’s legal doesn’t really matter right now. What _matters_ is that these little guys help you change colors in a pinch. _You’re_ gonna take these potentially expired pills, and _I’m_ gonna control my own colors to look like yours. Ten years on the run didn’t teach me absolutely nothin’, ya know. Now, if this doesn’t work on ya, I’ve got nothin’ else, so… let’s just hope, yeah?”

Though Ford looked skeptical, he held out his hand, took a pill out of the packet, and swallowed it dry. He squeezed his eyes closed, but seemed to realize he didn’t know what to do next.

“Now what, Stan? What if this doesn’t work?”

“Now’s not the time to be focused on the what-ifs, Ford! Now, relax your mind and body and imagine how I look on a daily basis. Get a crystal clear image in your head, and allow it to wash over you, like water in a shower. If it works, then immediately start takin’ off your clothes so we can switch them out.”

Slowly but surely, Ford’s colors went from the obnoxious yellow with cyan to Stan’s current palette. While Ford was transitioning, Stan had ripped off his suit jacket and dress shirt, his tie, and was in the process of taking off his pants.

“How does it look?”

Stan looked him over, surprised at their luck.

“Perfect. Okay, take off your clothes down to your underwear. I’m gonna chop off your sideburns.”

The twins proceeded to work together in fixing their appearances, speedily getting dressed.

They could hear Bill thundering down the passageway, so they knew it was show time.

“Quick! Switch glasses and take my fez. I’ve gotta morph into you!” Stan whispered, closing his eyes in deep concentration. Sure enough, his appearance became a lemony yellow with cyan flecks, uncannily like Ford.

Stan watched as Ford quickly patted his chest to check for the hidden memory gun, made sure his tie was on properly, and took a deep breath before Bill came stomping into the room.

“HEY, LOOK WHAT I’VE GOT! TWO PESTS, WAITING TO BE EXTERMINATED! IN FACT, LET ME KILL ONE OF THEM NOW… UNLESS, OF COURSE, YOU GIVE ME THE EQUATION.

“EENIE.”

_Okay, sound like Ford, channel your inner Ford, get rid of your rasp…_

_“MEENIE.”_

_...Shit, what if this doesn’t work?_

“MINY.”

_Hypocrite. No what ifs. Show time, Stan._

Right before Bill snapped his fingers for the “mo”, Stan yelled out in a perfect imitation of his brother.

“WAIT! I surrender, Cipher!”

Bill lowered his empty hand, looking gleeful at having won. As the demon dropped the kids to the ground, his eye closed in what seemed to be the equivalent of a victorious grin.

“GOOD CHOICE, SIXER.”

Stan elbowed Ford, who sprung into his dialogue. While his impression of Stan wasn’t the best, it was passable.

“No, Ford! It’ll destroy the entire universe!”

They made a show of getting into a slight argument before Bill interrupted them, clearly amused at their fighting. After a few seconds, Stan took the biggest risk of them all.

_It’ll be worth it for the kids.. And for my brother._

“I’ll let you into my mind, but only if you let the kids _and_ my brother go free, completely unharmed and alive!” Stan declared. The way he said it, he wasn’t giving Bill any wiggle room to kill his family.

“UGH, FINE.. I’VE GOTTA SAY, I’M SURPRISED YOU STILL CARE ABOUT OLD STANLEY THERE AFTER ALL HE’S DONE, BUT I _SUPPOSE_ I’LL LET IT SLIDE..”

Though Stan was internally pissing himself in fear, he took confident steps forward, walking in the stealthy gait his brother had since returning home. He held out his hand, as he knew his brother would have been familiar with this next step.

Cackling, Bill didn’t think twice before accepting the victory that was being presented to him on what seemed to be a silver platter. “IT’S… A… DEAL!”

The pair shook hands, and Stan was just barely able to mostly reign in a frightened yell before he collapsed to his knees, everything going dark.

* * *

*-*-*-*-*  
He opened his eyes, taking in his unfamiliar surroundings. Trees surrounded his little clearing, and the bright, blue sky had scattered white puffs of clouds. He looked down at his hands, confused.

_..Where am I?_

He wanted to stand up, yet he was incapable. The strain on his muscles suddenly hit him, and he blinked confusedly, having no clue what he was doing there.

“GRUNKLE STAN!!” a shrill voice called, getting closer. He thought it was a little girl, but he wasn’t entirely sure what a “grunkle” was, let alone who “Stan” was. The girl, wearing a pink sweater, was.. yellow?... with some sort of emotion, while the boy and their.. dad? Grandpa?.. followed behind her. His brain told him the kid was the color blue, but he didn’t know why. What he did know was that his knees were killing him.

“Grunkle Stan, you did it!” she exclaimed, placing her hands on his shoulders. Her face wasn’t one he had ever seen before, but he decided to humor her, considering she was a little kid.

“Uh.. hello there!” he greeted, wary. “What’s.. What’s your name?”

The girl’s expression immediately soured, almost as if she was slightly baffled by his question. He backpedalled, trying to fix the situation.

“Who’re you talking to?” he asked. Unbeknownst to him, his nose was becoming a purple color due to his confusion. The rest of his body, however, was a stark white, almost like a blank canvas. His face and hands had specks of yellow and cyan on them, but the ghastly white of the rest of his body was unheard of.

“Grunkle Stan.. it’s me! It’s me, Grunkle Stan!”

As she cried this, the young kid pulled her back from him. The old man, looking guilty, explained the situation to his granddaughter(?), who had tears streaming down her rosy cheeks.

“..We erased his mind in order to defeat Bill. He might not know it, but he.. he saved the world. You’re.. you’re our hero, Stanley.”

_Oh. My name is Stanley. Who are these people? Why do they know me?_

Stanley was enveloped in a hug by the old man. It was a comfortable, loving hug, yet something felt almost.. bitter.. about it. He felt the man’s fingers digging into his shoulder blade, but something felt off about it: not necessarily the intent behind it, but how it physically felt. When the man reluctantly pulled away, Stanley reached out to grab his hand.

“Stan, what’s wrong? Do you remember something?” he asked, hope gleaming in his cyan eyes.

_Odd. Why isn’t this one changing colors like the others? Can I change colors, too?_

Stanley examined the worn hand he held in his grip. Small, raised scars lined the palm and fingers, and the man had calluses marring his skin.

“..what? Oh, I’m sorry. I was looking at your hand.” Stan (he supposed that was his nickname) apologized. “Six fingers per hand! That’s really cool! I wish I had six fingers!”

While the little kids flinched back heavily at his use of an apology, the old man let out a short, hesitant laugh at the latter part of his sentence. When he saw Stan was being sincere, he chuckled lightly, the tense energy seemingly leaving his conscience.

“Thanks, Stan. Now, let’s get you back to the Shack after I give you your suit back.”

* * *

In the following days, Stan regained his memories and his old colors. While it was difficult seeing the difficult memories flash before his eyes, being able to reminisce on his happy memories with his family had been wonderful, in addition to being able to express his emotions effectively again. However, Stan knew that all good things had to come to an end, and he paced around his room, wooden floorboards creaking and groaning with each step.  
One of the worst things Stan had remembered was the fact that his brother, the brother he spent thirty years (he thought) trying to get back, was kicking him out of his home. Forever.

_How am I gonna survive? I have nowhere to go, no one’s gonna take me in, He’s not gonna let me stay… What do I do?_

Stan gripped his hair and tugged it, stimulating his scalp in a calming manner. He continued pacing with clenched teeth, trying to _think_. In his deep concentration, he didn’t hear his brother approach and stop in the doorway; had he looked over, he would have seen Ford looking concerned at his actions.

“Stanley? Are you alright?” Ford questioned, shifting in place; Stan, on the other hand, jumped slightly, scared out of his trance. He fell backwards and onto his mattress, bouncing slightly in his new seat. His colors shifted to an embarrassed chartreuse before slowly trickling back into his normal palette. With a twisted expression, he shrugged.

“Just peachy.. Frood? Gourd? I’m in the middle of packin’, so I can get outta yer hair,” Stan tried awkwardly. The bed frame creaked when Stan shifted positions, placing his hand on his forehead.

“My name is Ford,” Ford corrected gently, before a panicked expression crossed his features. The elder twin wrung his hands and crossed the room to sit next to his brother on the side of the bed. “Wait-- Packing? Why are you packing?”

Stan glanced over at his brother (Ford, now he remembered!), and he morphed into a confused purple. “Didn’t ya say I have till the end of the kids’ trip to stay, but then I hafta go? I don’t know if you knew this or not, Poindexter, but they left, so it’s time to go for me. I’ve got a plan, though!”

He didn’t have a plan.

Ford seemed to realize what was happening, and placed a hand on Stan’s shoulder.

“Stan, don’t you remember? I bought a boat, and we’re going to go hunting for anomalies in the Arctic Ocean together! As twins, we’re sticking together from here on out.” Ford reminded him, and Stan realized he had forgotten yet _another_ important tidbit of information. He sighed and rubbed his hands on his face, murky irritation clouding his previous purple.

“Ugh, I did it again, didn’t I? I don’t even know why you’re wastin’ your time on my sorry self, Sixer.”

Ford winced slightly at the use of the nickname he had recently associated with _him_ , but quickly recovered.

“Helping you is well worth my time, Stan. Anything for you is. You saved all of us, after all,” Ford reassured his brother before giving him a quick hug. “Now, finish packing up for the trip and we’ll be leaving in a few hours. I’ll be right back-- I actually have a surprise for you.”

Stan watched as Ford exited the room, leaving the door ajar. The former shifted his weight forward off the mattress to put him in a standing position (no matter how much his bones complained), and he let go of his breath, heart beating rapidly.

_He’s not kicking me out!_

_I’m safe…_

^^^^^^

A voice drowned out his reassurances: A bitter voice, almost like his pa’s.

_...He’s only stringing you along…_

_I’m.._

Another voice jumped in: this time, it was Ford’s.  
.  
 _..He doesn’t want you. He’s going to abandon you._

Stan’s breath picked up, and he covered his mouth with his hand, eyes widening. His brother had _no_ reason to bring him along. He knew he would cause _problem_ after _problem_ for his brother, and he.. he...

_I’m just a burden._

_Worthless._

_UsELESS-_

_uNWORTHY-_

Stan clenched the fabric of his shirt in his fist, grabbing at his chest. He whipped his head around, and saw his disheveled bed sheets. He wanted to hop in bed, to hide _forever._

_I-_

_I n-need…_

He sank to the ground, and his hands grasped at his graying hair. His colors didn’t seem to know what to show, so they shifted continuously as tears streamed from Stan’s eyes. He hardly registered his brother casually strolling into the room, rattling on about something or another.

“I found your gift! I thought I had misplaced it in the lab, but I found- Stan! Stanley, are you alright?!” he fretted as was greeted with the sight of his panicking brother.

Ford was at Stan’s side in a few seconds, but his brother’s trembling increased at his closer proximity. The elder brother seemed to realize that he was being too loud and anxious, which was decidedly _not_ helping Stan. Ford thought back on how Stan used to help him (he had to go quite far back), and calmed himself down enough to be rational again.

“Stan, I need you to breathe with me. Can you breathe with me, Stan? In… out… in…” Ford made a show of breathing in a controlled manner, and Stan followed along. In a few  
moments, his breaths were back in his control, and he had calmed down significantly.  
Stan could tell that Ford was reluctant to ask about the cause of his attack, just as he was reluctant to talk about it.

^^^^^^

“Stan… what brought that about?” Ford asked gently, probing for answers. He made sure he didn’t pressure Stan, for fear of causing a relapse of panic.

“Imnotworthyourtimeyouregoingtoleavemeidontwanttobealoneanymore-” Stan mumbled, speaking to quickly for Ford to process, even with his well-trained hearing.

“Could you repeat that? Is it okay if I touch you?” Ford asked, hands resting on his lap. His colors were stagnant, of course, but the concern coming off of him was so potent Stan could almost _taste_ it.

“..Yes, I’m fine now. I said.. I said I’m not worth your time. I’m just a disappointment.”

Ford hugged his brother tightly, wrapping his arms around Stan’s torso. Stan tightened his grip around his brother, trembling with the effort.

_I don’t want to lose him._

_I can’t lose him!_

Ford sighed, his breath fluttering on the crook of Stan’s neck. He whispered words of reassurance, _trying_ to communicate just how much _he_ loved and appreciated his brother, let alone how much all of Gravity Falls respected him.

“You’re worth everything, Stanley. You’re a hero. Everyone loves you, Stan. _I_ love you, Stanley. You’re the bravest, most courageous person I know. And you’re so, _so_ caring, and so many people look up to you…”

Though Ford felt his shirt dampening with Stan’s tears, he made sure not to mention that... little fact. It hardly mattered, as he knew Stan was processing and _understanding_ just how valuable he was to Ford, the twins, and everyone in Gravity Falls. The two brothers sat down on the floor for about a half hour, Stan quietly sobbing into Ford’s shoulder while the latter gently comforted him, firmly cementing Stan’s own value in his brain.

* * *

*-*-*-*-*

It had been a few weeks out at sea, and the Stan twins were having a fantastic time out on the water. Every day was a new experience on the small boat: From hunting anomalies to sharing stories, the pair had _almost_ caught up on all 40 years of their lives that they had not lived through together.

However, Stan had recently developed a bit of.. confusion toward his brother. While their bond was renewed, he had slight concern over his brother’s ever-stagnant colors.

_Always the same bright yellow and the same blinding cyan.. What gives?_

Stan voiced his concern over dinner a few hours later, finally giving into his budding curiosity. He swore he saw Ford’s eyes widen slightly in fear before his brother relaxed again, slumping over in his creaky wooden chair. Stan pressed his fingers together and placed his hands under his chin, gently resting his head. He proceeded to analyze his brother’s body language, his own colors shifting into a bright orange that displayed his curiosity.

_He looks almost.. Afraid? Why?_

_..I have no room to judge his past._

Ford shifted slightly, seeming to be distractedly coming up with a reply. Stan patiently waited for the explanation, confident he would receive one. He occupied himself with drumming his fingers on the table, the rhythm keeping him relaxed and rational.

“...About thirty five years ago, closer to thirty seven, even, I met who I thought was my muse at the time. While you and I now know him as _Bill Cipher_ , an untrustworthy, awful demon, I used to.. to practically _worship_ him,” Ford spat the last part, disgusted with himself. Stan reached across the table and placed a reassuring hand on his brother’s shoulder, a silent offering of a stop to the conversation.

Ford, however, shifted to a more determined expression.

“No.. I must get this out and into the open. I haven’t been honest with you, Stan, and for that I apologize.

“As I said, I _worshipped_ Cipher. I collected anything and everything I could find relating to him: sculptures, tapestries, art, legends, books… I had it all. I took it a step further by.. by allowing him to possess me. He mentioned he needed a worthy individual to let him use their body for his business, and I _readily_ agreed, without a second thought. As soon as I heard his.. his empty praise, I just had to _satisfy_.”

Ford combed his fingers through his fluffy hair, a habit he had picked up from Stan. Stan almost stopped his brother from continuing, getting up and out of his rickety chair to comfort his brother, but Ford waved him off, desperate to finish his spiel.

“After his first possession, I noticed.. I noticed how much _harder_ it was to shift colors. I was mostly stuck in a bright, obvious _blue_ that showed just how _eager_ I was to.. to _please_. Every time I let him inside my body, it was even more challenging to even change part of my body, let alone all of it. Only _he_ could change my colors, and he held that over my head like a.. like a carrot on a stick, almost. By the time I lost count of how many times he had possessed me, _used_ me, my colors were stagnant. Impossible to change. Only _then_ did I realize that he was bad news, that I had fallen for his seduction..

“Not long after that, Bill made sure to leave my colors as a glaring reminder of how he held influence over me. He made me _his_ yellow, _his_ cyan, and I absolutely _hate_ looking at myself in the mirror, seeing what he did to me. It was almost a relief, being able to change with those pills, but _God_ , I’m numb to it now, Stan. Numb!” Ford exclaimed, slamming his fist on the table for emphasis. His cyan eyes were swimming with frustrated tears, and Stan could only just barely hold back tears of his own.

_He’s been suffering this whole time…_

_Not anymore, Poindexter._

Ford glanced at Stan, obviously expecting a look of contempt, but his brother’s eyes were only filled with sympathy and empathy. Stan purposefully shifted his colors to a caring red (not that he didn’t care, but the sadness was the more overwhelming emotion of the two) before crossing over to the side of the table his brother was seated at. He got down on one knee, much to his skeleton’s protesting, and hugged his brother.

“You’re okay, Poindexter. We all make mistakes, and we have to live with that forever, but it’s molded ya into who you are now. And I think anyone we know can agree that you’re _one-hundred times_ the person Cipher was. You might’ve fucked up before, but _it’s okay_. It’s in the past now.”

Ford contemplated this for a moment before slowly nodding his head, accepting his brother’s words in slight resignation. Satisfied, Stan got back up on his feet, knees groaning in the meantime, and patted his brother’ shoulder in strong support before retreating from the interior of the boat, giving his brother space to process his new revelation.

* * *

Later that day, the pair was out on the deck, sitting in two camp chairs they had brought along for the sole purpose of relaxing outdoors. While Stan was nursing a cold beer, Ford was mindlessly sipping a mug of black coffee, his sixth for the day. At that moment, they were admiring the stars in the sky: Stan for their beauty, and Ford for their constellations they formed.

Just when Stan was on the brink of losing himself in the stars, Ford shifted in his seat, the chair whining slightly at the shift.

“...Stan, do you think of me any less, now that I’ve told you why I am how I am?”

Stan looked over at his brother, who looked almost _afraid_ , of all things. He let out a light chuckle, trying to add levity to the situation.

“Hell no. What I _do_ know is that now we can be dysfunctional _together_ , yeah?”

Ford let out a laugh, toasting Stan’s proposal with his coffee mug. Stan clinked the mug with his own bottle of beer, and the brothers shared a devious glance, accepting their fate as a pair.

A pair of brothers with unique colors, that is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say?
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH for reading and following me on this roller coaster ride of a journey! I really appreciate the kudos, comments, and bookmark! I wrote all of this in the span of about a week or two, and I'm happy I finally finished a project. Again, thank you so much for reading this story, and make sure to look out for other works from me in the near future! :)
> 
> -Gigi


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